


In All These Wasteful Hours

by lilith_morgana



Series: Sense and accountability [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their game of kings and rebels he is now her brother. And as soon as the Landsmeet is over, they will have to find a way to live with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kings and rebels

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly moving my old Bioware fics to this site.

**Warden:** You tell me: What do you want?  
**Loghain:** What I want? What an odd question... I want to ride back to Denerim and sit in the war room and find no empty chairs at the table. I want to lose nothing else. I want a line, clearly drawn, that I can defend. I want an end to this war. All of this can rightly be called my fault. Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen. But if you can make this end, Warden, I will follow you. I swear it.  
_(Dragon Age: Origins)_

 

  
* * *

They call it kings and rebels.

Elissa can't remember who first started it or how it begun, this well-rehearsed ritual that has coloured her childhood memories, fleshed out the meat on her bones and drawn invisible lines and hierarchies between the children in Highever. _I dub thee a soldier, a Knight, a King._ She no longer knows if it was her best friend Hestia, tiny and loud, who shouted orders to her imaginary armies or if that is simply something she thinks Hestia would do. She can't remember if Fergus beats her every time or if she occasionally climbed on top of him, too.

She only knows that when she looks back, she comes to this: sun-dried stones freckled with dirt, rare wild flower-treasures in the bushes behind the stables, wooden swords that she hides from her mother, bruised knees and bleeding knuckles – _I'm King Maric, you are dead!_ Her father will never speak to her of the war unless he is softened by brandy or late hours in the library, so Elissa sits in his lap, creating tales in her mind that nan later tries to rectify with soft sighs and _war is nothing like that, my dear._

But they are kings and rebels, knights and heroes and nobody ever dies.

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

“Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant.”

Elissa barely recalls the words. Someone else in her body speaks them, someone else in her head remembering every phrasing, every tone. The drums of _before_.

“Join us, as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten-”

Their hurriedly prepared chamber in the palace is warm and quiet, its air soft against her skin that prickles as she looks up and into the outstretched goblet in Riordan's hand. It will be a matter of seconds. Seconds before she is either all alone or in the company of the man who has hunted her across Ferelden for many months now, and both prospects are so strange she could not have predicted them this morning, or even three hours ago; a parched sensation in her throat as Loghain's fingers curls around the cup and-

“I... understand.”

He falls to the floor without a sound, much like she once must have done. Duncan and Alistair had lifted her then, made it as comfortable as possible for her body that waged a terrible war with itself, tearing her apart. Not that she remembers that either, but she understands it was what happened. If she drags memories out from the corners of her mind she can recall an imagined scent of fire, of being burned, being turned into scales and dust and hearing that slow hissing sound, whispering things she never were able to discern and haven't heard since. Her body revealed secrets to her then, she is certain of it, but those are secrets meant for someone else and tucked away, out of her reach.

Loghain falls alone. His armour makes a terrible noise against the floor; Elissa winces when she watches, her hands sweaty and cold and interlaced with each other as though she is trying to comfort herself. There is suddenly a shape of another observer in the doorway, too close to the ritual but Riordan's expression allows her to take another step, until she is standing in front of them. There is a hint of tears in her eyes.

“May I...?” Anora's voice is not a queen's but today Elissa's doesn't belong to a commander of men either, so she merely nods, allowing the moment of weakness.

And the woman who just turned a whole Landsmeet in her favour and earned herself a throne sinks to her knees in front of her father's body, gently turning him around so he rests his head in her lap. Soft, careful hands around his face and she sits there, without looking up or speaking to anyone. Under different circumstances it would have been a moving scene.

“He should wake up soon if the joining was successful.” Riordan rests one hand on Elissa's arm.

“I...it's the first time I see it.” She looks up at him. “This is a normal reaction, I take it?”

“Yes, indeed. Not as dramatic or worthy of tall tales as one might think, consuming the blood of the damned,” he says, a touch of grim humour in his voice. “A joining may even seem harmless to the casual observer.”

“We might consider public Joinings then, to increase our numbers. And charge an entrance fee.”

Riordan smiles at her, very briefly, and it feels less horrible - _all_ of it - because he is standing there with her and she can rely on him to make the unpleasant decisions and to joke about them once they are set in stone. The comfort in that simple thing. Comfort and a strange sensation of _home_ , of finally belonging to this heartless, heroic order of hers.

Then Loghain screams in his unconscious sleep and Anora looks up, distressed but composed again, because she, too, understands that screaming is better than silence. And so he opens his eyes and Riordan and Elissa both kneel beside him, nodding at each other and at him. The expression in his eyes is nothing short of disdain. At least they can find common ground in that.

“Welcome, brother.”

There is nothing more to be said.

.  
.  
.  
.

 

There is much more to be said in the chamber upstairs, but so few words that can possibly say it.

She steps into the room and the entire world seems to shrink down around her, enclose her in a cage of grey walls and dark desperation and all those things she wishes she could make him see. He has thrown the shield – Duncan's shield, the one she found – on the floor and stands with his arms folded and his heart shut, facing the bookshelves. For a second she lets herself pretend this is another scene in a another time and that Alistair is merely looking for something to read, selecting a volume and holding it up for closer inspection. He has never done such a thing, not for as long as she has known him – she isn't even certain he _reads_ \- but the scene seems real even so.

Another scene and she is back in the Landsmeet chamber, in the middle of the bustling crowd with her hands still clutching the swords as they all urge her to make decisions of life and death.

Loghain in front of her, head bowed in surrender and his voice lower, more dignified than before. She has never been able to admit defeat and there is a part of her - wild and loud and so tired of _death_ \- that admires him for possessing the strength.

Over a year ago she fought her way out of her own home and ever since, everywhere she has walked, her hands have forged death. Filthy, shameful death that eats away at her mind, that ripples through her being until she is death and death is all she is. She guts Arl Howe with her sharpest blade, watches him die and the taste in her mouth is ashes and dust, hollow revenge mistaken for victory. After all the feverish dreams of how she would make him pay - dreams that enlarge him to a giant beast - he dies just like a pathetic, mortal man.

Now the Hero of River Dane kneels in front of her and she is holding Duncan's sword. So quick and simple to take two small steps and end it. But she knows, the moment she meets his gaze, that she will never do it. _I am not death._

“I accept your surrender,” she hears herself say.

The banns, staring in disbelief.

Alistair's voice that cuts through her, sharp as a dagger but much less kind.

And at long last Riordan, stepping forward, tipping all possible scales and transforming her decision into one of pure reason.

In this room as in the Landsmeet chamber, Alistair is the shade that covers the light, the twisted knot of pain in her stomach and the reason she curls her hands into fists as she looks at him, once more.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Alistair turns around, raising an eyebrow. “I don't think we have much to say to each other, actually.”

“I – we, Riordan and I – did what Grey Wardens do. What Duncan would have done.” She lets the word fall to the floor, harsh and painful, without taking her eyes off him. “And you _know_ that.”

“Do I?”

“No, perhaps you don't.” Elissa looks around for a chair to use, her legs are feeling thick and useless and she can easily imagine never moving again.

Alistair doesn't move at all, he stands still and stares at her.

The stories of legend and myth, of Griffons and Wardens riding bravely through the storms to keep the kingdoms safe. Heroes worthy of undying admiration and they are, at times. She has gathered as much. But Grey Wardens wait in the shadows outside Fort Drakon carrying darkness and a right to conscript anyone and Grey Wardens burn villages full of innocents rather than letting them slip under darkspawn control. Grey Wardens drag people out from the ruins of their lives if that is what it takes. They are not judges or priests, they are above the law and in between the shades of black and white and she wants to hit him over the head for not _seeing_ this.

“Did you call him brother?” he asks, suddenly, and his voice breaks mid-air, too small to carry the weight of his grief and confusion.

Elissa looks through the window. The sun is up, still. It feels impossible, by all means it ought to be night now, or a different year altogether.

The day after tomorrow their small army will be leaving for Redcliffe, making brief stops along the way to ensure the army she has raised is _there_ and not scattered like in her nightmares. It's her decision: split the targets over Ferelden, take the opportunity to get a clear view of the extended battlefield and ensure the support of the troops. In her head she thinks of it as a good solution. In her heart, there is a flutter of panic and not just because of the strategy.

The day after tomorrow she will have lost the man who has been her best friend since Ostagar, who has kissed her in the middle of the Dead Trenches and made it all seem worthwhile. Who wears his stupid heart on his sleeve at all times but makes her laugh, makes her head spin and her throat tighten with want simply because he looks at her like she is the only thing he has ever desired and probably means it, at that.

And she must drive him out of her. For all their sakes'.

“Did you call him brother?” Alistair repeats, louder now.

“I did,” she says.

Brother. The door slams harsh and dull against her heart as she leaves.

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

Outside Loghain's chamber she waits for Riordan. He looks as tired as she feels, but _satisfied_ in a grim sort of way, like he doesn't want to admit the reason for it. Then again, it is hardly difficult to venture a guess.

“Our newest brother is still in a considerable amount of pain,” he remarks.

“Well, that's fair.” Elissa leans against the wall, ducking for a painting that threatens to entangle her hair in its frame. There's an unrest in her body, a restless flicker of doubts and fears – she is ill suited to idleness, in particular if there are things to be done, and this wait is just _cruel_. She longs for battle and dreads it at the same time; the song of the darkspawn increases in her head every day, promising blood and pain. And death. More death. Such is the language of Blights.

“He is a Warden now. Remember this, lass.” Riordan reminds her as much as he reminds himself, she spots it in his face when stands right next to her, his head against the same wall, his arms folded. “Even so, between the two of us, I rather enjoyed hurting him.”

“Revenge is sweet, then?” It isn't, but she does not want to talk about _that_. Oh Maker, she does not even _know_ how to talk about that. Not today.

“For a few seconds, certainly.” She can feel his gaze upon her and turns her head. There is something he wants from her, but she cannot tell what.

“I rather thought the Joining would kill a man his age,” she says instead.

Riordan nods. “It is assumed. We know very little of it, however. When I joined I was almost thirty and it was said to be shortening my lifespan in comparison to the younger recruits. I have, however, been given well over twenty years since then.”

In the dim, sifted light of the corridors here he hardly looks his age and Elissa is reminded of an indistinct longing for other things than company, or at least other forms of it. She grimaces slightly. Not the time or place.

“What are we going to do with him then? Can we trust him not to have us killed as soon as he recovers?” The sound of her own voice brings her back on the proper path again.

“There is very little he would gain from attacking us.”

“True.” Elissa rubs her temples. Loghain is all about gain. He is also her new comrade-in-arms, her fellow Warden, her soldier. Her stomach churns a little a the thought.

“If you so wish, I could take him with me,” Riordan offers. The idea of sending Loghain along with the Orlesian as a punishment is certainly humorous fodder for dark days but as a strategy it is poor. Grey Wardens should not travel alone, Duncan – considering himself an exception to the rule - reminds her in her head. They come in packs, like wolfs. Elissa may not have years of experience as a war strategist but a child could see that piling the targets on top of each other and throwing them in one carriage makes for a disastrous plan.

“No, he'll stay with me,” she says, and sounds much more certain that she is. “I've defeated him once, I can do it again.”

The muscles in her lower back object furiously – the former Teyrn knows how to use every _inch_ of his imposing size and _Holy Maker_ , the strength of his blade - but there is no reason for Riordan to be in the know. Only Wynne will ever find out what it cost to win that duel because Wynne can keep a secret.

“If you are certain?”

Elissa straightens up, nodding solemnly. “I am.”

And so they open the door.

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

The two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden meet their companions side by side in Arl Eamon's Denerim estate that evening. Riordan walks two steps behind, allowing Elissa the position of the one in charge. They must be a pitiful sight, she thinks as they are led through the halls by a nervous guard and an equally panic-stricken servant.

Loghain is paler than she has ever seen him and Elissa is beginning to believe there is something inside her that bleeds worse than the ugly wound on her upper left arm. _Ferelden's best hope, indeed._

All things considered, this has been a bloody awful excuse for a day and she she can't wait to make it a distant yesterday. Somehow she reckons the men in her company would agree.

They are shown into an atrium of sorts, lush with paintings and decorative flowers and ornate embroideries resembling those at the Great Halls in Highever – except, Elissa thinks, there are fewer dogs here. Her own Mabari is being kept upstairs, on Arl Eamon's orders, and most certainly not allowed to run wild. She rather wishes he was with her.

As they enter, the entire room seems to empty itself of all sound and all movements. Everything just stops. It's quiet but oddly enough not silent – more like a gap between two equally draining noises.

“Good. You are all here.” Elissa thinks of her mother of all things, thinks of mustering up courage when there is no such thing to be found and put on the masks of duty. It helps. Her mother knew more of duty than most people.

Wynne immediately looks at her, eyes focused and bright. Zevran arches an eyebrow, clearly interested in this new development of their journey together and never one to pass up on changes. _Nobody deserves death,_ Leliana has already told her, hurriedly and hushed with hot breaths against Elissa's neck outside the quarters where Loghain became a Warden. _Maker bless you._ What Ohgren thinks is impossible to discern behind the the barrel of ale he seems to have consumed in the idle hours since Landsmeet; Sten and Shale stand beside him, unperturbed as ever. From her corner, almost her own little separate entity, Morrigan measures them with her gaze. She doesn't seem displeased.

And Elissa stands with Riordan on one side and Loghain on the other and it hits her, again, that they are the only Wardens in this country, three tattered wrecks against a Blight.

“Loghain is travelling with us to Redcliffe,” she says, closing her voice around the words in an attempt to make them sound more powerful. “Riordan will accompany the Queen's army. Get some rest today and tomorrow. You will need it.”

Then she turns to Loghain, feeling his icy blue gaze upon her even before their eyes meet.

“We will speak tomorrow.”

Loghain nods and with the faintest sneer playing on his lips, he jerks his head in what appears to be interpreted as a dutiful bow.

“As you say, Warden.”

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

Darkness comes, at long last, even to days like this. Slow and lurking it pierces through the daylight until the stars are the only source of light around and above them. Elissa lays on her back on an unguarded balcony, counting the dots in the sky. One hand protectively over her side where Wynne's healing spells still hum and soar quietly, the other trailing patterns in the stone floor.

_I dub thee a soldier, a knight, a King._

They still play the game, reinforce the hierarchies of childhood but with forged steel instead of wood and broken hearts instead of bruises.

And she is no longer a child, so both kings and rebels die.


	2. Solitary man

There is no shortage of food in the dining halls the following morning. In fact, there is such an over-abundance of food that he wonders, sitting down and waiting for the servants, if Grey Wardens are thought to eat three times as much as an ordinary warrior. 

Loghain himself is not particularly hungry.

“Here you go, ser,” an elven girl says nervously and moves the first of many plates to his place at the table. When she returns with the fifth selection of meat, fruit, bread and cheese he feels his stomach tie up in a knot and raises a hand to stop her. 

That's when Cousland enters and, with a tired sigh, slumps down opposite him. 

“Warden,” he offers, oddly aware of the shift in hierarchies between them since yesterday. 

“Loghain.”

So it's not _brother_ today, then. He is thankful for small mercies. 

For a little while he occupies himself with dried meat and a slice of cheese, noticing her plate in the corner of his eye – it's _loaded_ and she eats like a Mabari, shoving large chunks of everything at once into her mouth, almost as though she is oblivious to anything else. 

He reluctantly takes a serving of bread. 

“Bad night?” she looks up, suddenly, still chewing on a bit of ham and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. All these months on the road certainly seem to have burned away her Highever manners. Loghain is vaguely amused but her question touches at a part of him that is definitely _not._

“What is the purpose of asking questions you already know the answer to?” It comes out even sharper than he intended it and he thinks he can spot the hint of a cruel smile as he looks at her. 

_You will have nightmares,_ the damned Orlesian had mentioned in passing. 

That part was no lie, at least. 

In his memories he is clawing at the bedposts, sweating, squirming and _praying_ \- and even now, with morning light outside and his armour back on he feels _bare_ just thinking of it. 

Elissa puts down her cup. 

“I ask because I don't know if the nightmares come immediately,” she says evenly. Her dark brown eyes are unreadable and unflinching.“As you may recall, my first night after the Joining was in Ostagar. You will have to forgive me if I can't separate the side-effects from drinking darkspawn blood from the side-effects of almost _dying._ ” 

There is scarcely anything he can say in response to that, at least not without transforming the meal into a bloody fight, so he eats his seemingly never-ending bread and she goes back to inhaling another plate full of grapes and figs. Through the hissing sounds in his head he hears muffled voices from the kitchen scullions, but not much else. The room is very still. He supposes they are late or possibly early as there is no sign of the others this Warden travels with and just when he is about to ask her about it when she leans back in her chair, looking at him intently. 

“I use potions made from elfroot and briar bush,” she says. “It sedates the mind. Makes you sleep a full night. As for the noise, it depends on the darkspawn. But you should be able to ignore it after some time.”

And before he knows it she has marched out of the room. 

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

His daughter is _not_ satisfied. 

His daughter is most definitely not satisfied but quietly _furious_ , pacing the room and only just refraining from gesticulating dramatically. 

Watching her stride from one side of the room to the other throws him back into a different time altogether, a world where Cailan had done or not done something or refused to see reason and Loghain had groaned and tried to escape into the maps on his desk - it had never worked but still remained his strategy of choice. A world in which Anora wanted respect and Cailan _demanded_ his kingly decisions were carried out unquestioned and Loghain had felt like a widower in every aspect of the word, urging his late wife and Maric – and _Rowan_ , Maker forgive him - back from the Fade to help him raise these bloody children. 

At least Anora is no fool. 

“He acts like a petulant child,” she complains, sweeping past Loghain once more. In his chair, he rubs the bridge of his nose and his temples, leaning forward and wishing the soaring whispers would stop before he goes insane. Some time, the Warden had said. Some _time._ “I have no desire to be in his company at the moment. And I do not take kindly to being yelled at.”

“Kings do that a lot,” he mutters. “Yell, that is. Queens, too, as it happens.”

“Oh, you are so _funny._ ”

But she isn't a hair's breadth away from strangling him tonight, unlike last night - once she understood he was going to live. 

She has always had a temper resembling neither his own sour, introverted aggression nor her mother's quiet acceptance. If anything, she reminds Loghain of a past best forgotten.

When he took her to Denerim for the first time, to meet Cailan, she had _shrieked_ all the way out of Gwaren like someone put red-hot needles through her body. He had felt like a bandit, snatching a noble child as hostage. A few years later she had shrieked in a similar fashion when he explained she was not going to attend the celebration of Cailan's fifteenth birthday because Denerim was too far away when snow covered all roads. 

Loghain has the distinct impression she would shriek now as well, if he wasn't there to witness it. 

She is tired of nursing husbands, he knows, weary not of ruling but of ruling through the hands of others, of being the strong one, the very unbreakable foundation upon which the kingdom can rest. 

He has a shoddy habit of forcing this role upon women he loves. 

Once the rebels had won, all those years ago, Loghain had thrown himself into a self-assumed exile half a country away from the Queen, thinking only geographical distance could prevent disaster on that account. Stumbling into his role as Teyrn - a hog in fancy armour who never bothered learning how to dance or converse - he married a commoner's daughter who reminded him of a girl in his father's band of outlaws. Kind and nurturing, mild-mannered and _different_ enough to resemble the Queen of Ferelden as much as a puppy resembled a dragon. 

And of course they raised a daughter that is more Rowan than even Rowan herself, which is just another example of fate's twisted bloody sense of humour. 

“Are you _listening_ to me?” Anora's voice is a sharp lash against the enjoyable silence of his memories. 

“Yes.” He looks up. 

“Liar.”

Grimacing, she sits down on the edge of the armrest of his chair. He notices she has removed the rings and bracelets – fancy bribes – Cailan gave her when he had been travelling somewhere. The idiot. Loghain decides he will not think more about Cailan tonight. Or at all, if he can avoid it. It threatens to turn the soar in his head into a tempest. 

“I just... we will be travelling westwards with the first light of the day,” Anora sighs. 

“I heard.” 

She will lead a nation in battle. And although she would never openly admit it, she doubts her own abilities to do just that - at least here, at least tonight. He turns his head to look at her. 

“You are Ferelden's queen. Not because of your blood but because of your skill and your worth. Do not doubt that.” 

She scoffs at his reassurance, entirely too old for it, but he feels her shoulders relax. 

And they remain together for a while, not speaking. It has been years since they last sat like this, without urgent matters to fight over or various disagreements to solve. When Loghain gets to his feet, the sky outside is already dark. Anora walks with him to the door. 

“Be careful on the road,” he says, thinking he might never see her again. 

“You as well.” His daughter nods briefly, every bit the Queen in that moment. “I shall see to the Warden's supplies myself before we leave, make certain we have offered everything we can.” 

“Good.” 

He is already in the corridor when he feels a hand on his arm, holding on to him. 

“ _Father,_ ” she says suddenly and her voice is six years old again and he is escaping Gwaren, his horse already waiting outside. “Maker watch over you.”

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

He wonders when the banns will come for him, demanding compensation for the lives he took, paying for the war. 

He wonders when the Orlesians will slip through Ferelden's undefended borders and wonders, too, just how long the country will be in a disarray. He won't be there to fix it this time. 

He wonders when all his failures will stop tasting bitter. 

But tonight, as he breathes night-air on a balcony, trading his heavy armour for a pair of trousers and a shirt, he mostly wonders if he will ever be able to _sleep_. Maker knows he ought to. Everything is heavy with sleep deprivation, his motions clumsy and his thoughts dull and shapeless. Perhaps, he thinks, some time outside will help. The stone bench beneath him is chilly but not unwelcoming; he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. 

Then – footsteps. 

“Here.” 

Looking up, over his shoulder, he spots Elissa standing there with a vial in her hand. He's about to ask what and why when she sits down on the bench; she puts the potion between them when he doesn't take it, then she stretches her legs in front of her and looks at him. 

“It's Zevran's decoction.”

“The assassin?” Loghain snorts. “Somehow that is not comforting.”

“He's not a very _dedicated_ assassin,” she replies, and if the bloody Joining hasn't dulled all of his ordinary human senses and replaced them with darkspawn ones, he can trace amusement in her tone. “As you may know.”

“It has become clear to me, yes.” 

“I had thought you a man who kills his enemies himself.” Elissa still looks at him, a little more introspective now, like she is mulling over his motivations. He is uncertain he wishes to elaborate on this subject at all, actually, but eventually resigns. 

“I am... usually.” He shifts position on the bench. When he allows himself to feel it, his right leg still hurts from yesterday's duel – not a surprise given that her blade must have pierced his armour at least five times if the number of wounds on his body is anything to go by. 

“I was correct in my judgement of you then,” she certifies with a nod. 

She seems oddly _pleased_ about it. 

“I suppose you think I'm some kind of monster,” he says, not entirely sure where he is heading with this. Or why he is posing questions he doesn't really wants to know the answer to. Questions he doesn't care about the answer to, he corrects himself. “More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently. ”

His fellow Warden turns her head at that, her brow furrowed. Then her face relaxes and she smiles and it appears to be a genuine smile, which completely confuses him. He is not known for making people smile. Least of all his former enemies. 

“Indeed. I may have to resort to magic next time.” 

Loghain thinks of the pompous ceremony last night and can't help but sneer. He had never known the Grey Warden rituals were as conceited as the Wardens themselves. Even Maric would have found that laughable. _Join us in the shadows._ Maker have mercy. 

“Oh?” he asks. “What was all that nonsense with darkspawn blood and mages, then? A puppet show?” 

“Yes, we thought you needed a light-hearted distraction after having lost the Landsmeet,” she retorts, boldly. She has crossed her arms over her chest and eyes him, still with that inexplicable expression in her face. It seems to be equal parts amusement and disgust. 

Loghain doesn't know how to react to this. He hasn't spoken like this with anyone for many years, and finds himself longing for clear orders and brief responses. 

“Well, what shall we do to settle things between us then?” he asks, to steer away from matters he does not master. “What concession do you want from me?”

“I don't know,” she confesses. 

“You don't know?” 

“No.” 

“But what shall it be?” he presses on, because certain matters _must_ be taken care of if they are to travel as companions. “What is it that you want from me?”

With that, her face shifts. Whatever mask she has been wearing – one of forced strength and momentum, he assumes – it dissolves as he looks at her now. And what he sees is an echo of someone else, someone he has assumed dead a long time ago, along with countless of rebels and his own childish ideas of heroism. 

“There is one thing I need to know,” she gives in. “If you are going to fight by my side...”

She falls silent, but Loghain hardly needs her to spell it out for him. 

“I did not learn about your family until you arrived in Ostagar,” he answers her never spoken question. “I used the knowledge of what had happened in Highever to gain a hold of Howe. Which, as it turned out, was not my best tactical choice this year. He spent the better part of it discrediting my name all across Ferelden.”

“Well, that couldn't have been very difficult.” She is composed again, her eyes neutral and calm. 

He grunts, but lets the statement hang in the air, entirely too tired for berating her. 

“Why did you spare my life?” he asks instead. He hadn't meant to bring it up but figures that if they are going to be honest with each other he can grasp at the opportunity to find out. It has been vexing him, after all. 

“Why would I have killed you?” Elissa looks down at her hands, folded and then quickly unfolded in her lap. 

“I can think of several reasons.”

“Yes, but I am not you,” she says, shrugging. 

“No,” he agrees. “You are not.”

“That disappointed you a little, didn't it?” She doesn't wait for an answer. He couldn't have given one. In a graceful movement that reminds him of how young she is, the Warden has left the bench and is standing several metres away, already on her way. “Drink that potion before you go to sleep. It's an order.” 

And with those words she is gone. Without answering his question, no less. 

Loghain picks up the vial, looks at the yellow liquid inside, weighing the bottle in his hand. 

Very well, he thinks. He will drink it. 

Perhaps there is poison in it after all. 

Perhaps she does know the meaning of mercy.


	3. Home is the place where

They leave Denerim with the first light of day. 

Elissa feels her heart expand as soon as they exit through the city gates, the cruel confining cages of politics and the game of thrones _finally_ releasing their hold on her. The dust and noise of the streets fading out, the bothersome, crowded market place and the stench from the Alienage, from the taverns, from the filthy back alleys; someone told her once that one has to grow up in Denerim to be able to endure it.

_Maker bless Highever,_ her father used to say after every Landsmeet, before he took Fergus and her hunting. She understands him better now. 

In Denerim she longs for home, and now when they leave, she realises what she means is actually the road. They have travelled for so long and in so many constellations along the way that they have created their own country and this country has from the very beginning had but two borders – the one against the darkspawn and the one against Loghain, sometimes bleeding into each other, sometimes overlapping. 

What they lack in numbers they make up for in other ways: by nesting, drawing maps, shaping habitable forms of their given share, making due with what little they have at their disposal. And learning gradually the various words for home. 

The temporary hearths at night embrace their small country, close around it as soft but stable walls while they pretend, like the first men and women must have, that all beasts fear fire. 

Everything is different now that Loghain is here. 

She casts Alistair out and allows _him_ in. And like the plague or a war, it throws the country upside down and changes _everything._

It's in the way they look at her, frowning. How their gazes linger on her when they think she isn't aware, how the lines of mouths and faces are taut, _closed_ because she has become something else while they are the same. It's in the way the very shape of their nation in exile has shifted under her weight, torn apart the structure of how they see each other. 

All day they walk and it's unusually quiet. All of them weary and all of them with heads full of thoughts and fears, but it can't be brushed off like that, not this time. 

Elissa realises by the time they make their stop for the night, that for the first time since Ostagar, she stands alone. Not without them - they are still in her hands, their lives her personal possessions – but alone.

”I'm heading into the forest” she tells them.”We need wood for the fire.” 

And nobody offers to go with her so she settles for trying to convince herself it is a welcome pause in the constant company, but even deep inside the forest, that feels like a cheap lie. 

 

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The second day of their journey is much the same. 

They break their fast with goat cheese and thick, suspiciously sour-smelling milk and bread made of wheat and it's only a fraction of what they've been served in Denerim for weeks now. Elissa catches Loghain's gaze over the empty plates, like she would catch Alistair's before, when everybody had finished and the two of them were still _hungry._

She throws him an apple from her pack as they march and he nods, accepting it. 

Before their next meal they have already encountered a group of bandits and a few stray darkspawn and it feels good, actually _good_ , to let the rhythm of fighting pour back into the blood. In the way they fight, they are still almost the same. 

Almost. 

Until Loghain makes a blunt comment about how they are decent fighters on their own but a weak unit. 

And Elissa agrees to let him offer suggestions on how they can be a stronger army, ordering the others to be trained under his command as he sees fit. 

That night she curls up on her bedroll, fingers buried in soft Mabari fur and her head against a fast-beating dog heart that pulsates warm and strong and loyal. Always smarter than people thinks, the dog puts his nose to her face and licks her cheeks, in a slobbering but undeniably sweet token of affection. 

 

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On the fourth day, approaching the last known outpost of the Dalish clan, they meet darkspawn.

It's a narrow path, surrounded on both sides by forest and flanked by groves so thick in vegetation that they have no chance of seeing through them. Elissa feels the enemies in her body and she understands by the frown on Loghain's face that he is developing the ability as well. That is not comforting. 

“Darkspawn,” she clarifies to the rest. “A lot of them, I think.”

”So what do we do?” Wynne asks, raising her staff to cast a protective ward over Elissa. She is deliberately avoiding Loghain who notices but says nothing.

”Well, we – _oh_ -” Elissa waits a second or two for the immediate effects of the spell to sink into her, her entire skin stinging with magical energy. She had found this sensation so atrocious in the beginning that she refused to let Wynne cast anything in her direction. ”Zevran, please scout into the edges of this blasted forest and check if you see something. Alert us immediately if you do.” 

“Anything for you, dear Warden,” he replies, smiling slightly. 

”And Wynne?” Elissa sharpens her tone. 

“Yes?”

“For the love of the Maker, stop trying to make me the _only_ Warden left in Ferelden.” 

Zevran disappears soundlessly and reappears again, a grim expression on his face. 

“No darkspawn, only corpses.” 

“Elves?”

He nods. “I think so.” 

They proceed, carefully, paying great attention to every inch of nature surrounding them. Elissa leads them and Loghain walks last, keeping watch: for almost too long this is a strategy that works, takes them far and keeps them out of trouble. They fight off a few genlocks that seem to have lost their horde but even that is done in quick, effortless moves. 

Then they reach a large grove and Elissa's head is about to explode from the sound. Merciless and growing it fills up her thoughts; as she's turning around to inform the others she realises there's a group of shrieks attacking from behind but that is not the source of her head-noise and she can see that Loghain knows this too. 

“Split up,” she orders quickly. “Zevran. Sten. Ohgren. Morrigan. Leliana. Take out the shrieks.” 

It's second nature to her by now, counting out their names like words in childhood rhymes. _One, two, three, four, off to die in my war._ And it's such an easy thing, obeying. Oddly envious, she watches them run off. 

“We'll go further into the grove,” she tells the rest of them. 

“Is seeking out this battle such a good thing?” Wynne, looking at her like her mother would do, sometimes, when Elissa had done something bad along the lines of climbing out of the castle at night and been scooped up by amused guards. A _mother._ Patient but stern, urging her child to see her own wrongdoings rather than pointing them out to her. 

“We can hardly _avoid_ battle if we're travelling this road, madam,” Loghain points out for Wynne instead. 

“Are you in charge here, Loghain?” Wynne retorts, with that coldness she reserves for him - a coldness that makes Elissa unreasonably irritated because it doesn't only question _Loghain_ , it disrespects the general who brought him along. 

“I am in charge, Wynne. And I say we go.” Over the last few days, she notices, her voice has become different. Harder. Sounding certain when nothing inside her is. Elissa hears the battle cries and the awful darkspawn shrieks and she is just about to turn around to concentrate their fight to one place at the time when she is thrown back by a green blast of a curse. It's the fettering sort of pain that only magic can cause and she groans, crawling on all four in the grass. 

”Emissary,” she seethes. 

”That's a darkspawn mage, correct?” Loghain unsheathes his sword and holds out his hand for her to grab. He pulls her to her feet. “Are you injured?” 

”Yes. And no, not much.”

They both peak over the bushes and into the field ahead where a handful of emissaries have formed a circle on the ground, surrounding themselves and the forest with a grey, glimmering shroud that sends chills down Elissa's spine, not only because she hears the slow, humming spells resound in her head, but because she understands _what_ they are doing. 

”They are summoning darkspawn from the ground,” she says. “Six emissaries. Physically, they're weak and their magic is unrefined, but usually powerful.” 

He considers this for a moment, it seems. 

”Which one do you want?” he asks. 

“Wynne,” she says, immediately grasping this game because she has not grown up with a father who fought under General Loghain Mac Tir without learning that when he has a plan, you go with it. Quickly. “We'll take the right flank. You and Shale go left?”

Loghain nods. 

And then there is nothing to do but _fight_. 

Elissa runs along with Wynne far behind, feeling the magic like a heavy shield around them both; from the opposite side of the battlefield she sees Loghain rush forward, straight into the crowd of rising darkspawn, and a moment later he raises his sword in the air, which makes Shale throw herself at one of emissaries, causing the earth the to crumble. 

The protective shield enables her to get close, touching the magical barriers the darkspawn have put up, but she can't breach – and again she is thrown to the ground when her own protective ward is slipping and Wynne seems to be too busy to notice. Elissa takes a deep cut in her side, almost toppling over but managing to gut the emissary casting spells on her before turning around and taking out the Hurlock at her back. 

She rests for a second, putting her hand to the wound. _Maker's breath_ , but that's a quite lot of blood. Far away Shale cracks the skulls of two genlocks by clashing them against each other, Loghain overpowers one of the four remaining emissaries with his shield and Wynne is summoning thunder. 

A swarm of magical energy above her head and she ducks, crying out in pain but avoiding further damage. Everything is desperately chaotic, but despite being outnumbered, they do fairly well. Elissa manages to get further into the battlefield unnoticed and uses both her swords to fell another emissary. Three left. And an ever-growing number of summoned darkspawn. 

Shale upsets the balance of the earth once more, leaving corpses in her wake and Loghain seizes the opportunity to go unnoticed behind her size and behead the fourth spellcaster. Spurred by this, Elissa advances, aware of Wynne's slow but sure progress to her right sending jolts of lightening into the darkspawn ranks. 

And then the others arrive with Zevran leading them and they are all covered in blood but smiling, because they have not yet _lost_ a fight and they do not lose this battle either. Even if Morrigan takes severe damage to her head and Loghain nearly dies. Even if Leliana spits blood and Sten's breathing sounds like sharp fingernails on glass. Despite all this. 

Their country is defended. 

“Good job,” Elissa tells them, one hand holding back the slowly seeping flow of blood from her body, the other holding on to Shale who is vaguely disgusted by the whole display of bodily fluids but stoic enough to handle it. 

“You as well,” Loghain says and that is _Alistair's_ line but he has no way of knowing that, so she merely nods. 

But their country borders crumble again. 

 

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For an hour or so everything is nearly back as it was before. They return in bits and pieces, bloodied and bruised and while the sun sets they help each other out of armour and into a nearby stream. This is almost a ritual, words and gestures stored in body-memory more than in mind, its purposes as much spiritual as physical. 

Elissa lets Leliana wash her aching back and bandage her wounds, she drinks the potions Wynne hands her and in turn, she swiftly frees Zevran's arm from a poisonous arrow while he hisses curses in Antivan. 

Only Loghain does not participate and even that seems fitting, somehow. 

She volunteers for the second watch with him, noticing the relieved looks on everybody's faces and the half-apologetic expression on Leliana's as she wakes Elissa up. Nobody will speak of it, but they all fear him. Or fear _her_ , she can't decide which. 

The world outside her tent is chilly and wet, a moist air that hangs over their heads like too-thick blankets in the summer. Dog is sitting at Loghain's feet next to a mound of stones. He looks expectant and very content, nothing like the man he guards who follows her with his gaze as she walks across camp and slumps down on the ground, in front of the fire.

She tucks her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs and around herself, to keep warm. It's so _quiet_ around them. 

They used to have fun, before. Even with all the death and fighting and running for their lives. They had _fun_. Zevran would tell horrific stories of various stages of murder and Leliana would sing and Morrigan would roll her eyes and even though it was all just a game to keep the shadows away it was captivating enough for make-believe. Elissa finds that it's the absence of this, more than anything else, that wraps itself around her heart, hardening it.

“You are their general now.” Loghain's voice is low, slipping into her glum thoughts, but she catches every word. “That's what you became at Landsmeet.”

She presses her heels down in the ground in front of them, kicking a little and stirring up some dirt that flickers into the fire and dies. He's right. She wants to be a _child_ , wants to be like Alistair whose voice rings loud and angry in her head even now, wants to ask him if generals can't have friends but she knows the outcome of those questions already. But the Couslands always do their duty. 

“Does it get easier?” she asks instead, dreading this answer, too. “Making these decisions?”

“No,” he says, predictably. 

“How cheery.”

“You expected pomp and glory from the heroic Grey Wardens, did you?” he looks at her, cocking an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that. You're not the foolish kind.”

Elissa remembers Ser Gilmore's desire for the Wardens, for honour and glory and battle and it stings a bit inside her, remembering as well that he gave his life so she could escape. 

“I didn't want _anything_ to do with the Grey Wardens,” she says, leaning back on her hands. It's been so long since she talked about it, it was always one of those things she had tucked back into the corners of her mind, saved for later. Alistair never found out. “Duncan used the Right of Conscription. It's a treaty that gives-”

“It gives the Grey Wardens right to overrule laws and kings,” Loghain nods. “I am aware.” 

“I wanted him dead,” Elissa tips her head back to watch the stars above her head, feeling Loghain look at her, still. “He... dragged me out of Highever. My father was dying and my mother refused to go, she said she would defend him to her death. I... Duncan had to _carry_ me away.” 

“He wouldn't waste a brilliant warrior.” 

“No.” 

“A practical choice.” He sounds approving. It's not unexpected. She can see a glint of Duncan's heart in Loghain and could, she realises now, spot some of Loghain's uncompromising cruelty in the Warden Commander. 

“He was a good man,” she says, eventually. “Utterly pragmatic and sometimes very harsh, but not heartless. He did what he thought he had to do.” 

Loghain is putting more logs on the fire and stirring it slowly, with the tip of a charcoaled branch. His face is closed-off, distant. In the twisted light from the flames, she observes the back of his hand, spotting a silvery scar run across it, escaping between his thumb and index finger. She wonders when he got it. 

“Do you still hate being a Grey Warden?” he asks.

“I don't know. I don't think so.” She rubs a sore spot at the back of her neck that has been stiff since Wynne's last healing. Despite knowing better, she's still uneasy with magic _invading_ her, leaving traces on her skin, and there is always some part of her that unwisely fights against it. “Do... do you?”

“That's what you're hoping for, I take it?” He looks sideways at her. 

“No, not really.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says. He sounds more incredulous than annoyed. 

“That was not an answer to my question.” Elissa leans forward, reaching for the branch on the ground between them. It makes a soft, rasping sound through the air as she twirls it round and round. Loghain sighs. 

“I... don't hate it. Which is odd, but there it is. It's a less confining life than being a Teyrn.”

“I don't disagree with _that._ ”

“No, I suppose Bryce's daughter would not.” 

Some fractions of the Ferelden nobility had - once the heavy cloak of heroism wore off - found Loghain ungrateful, Elissa knows. Ungrateful, uncouth and vulgar. Was he not still a commoner at heart, they wondered. Was he not merely a farmer's son? Others raised him to the skies on never-faltering arms because he was a man of the people but still attainable, without them ever having to leave the castles and estates. 

Perhaps it's the memory of those different opinions that has captivated her this pas week. The prospect of seeing them undone, or rearranged as the myth becomes a man. Because he is carefully _made._ Like a detailed painting or a volume full of words that each has been selected over something else due to sound or meaning, to fit into a pattern of perfectly aligned shapes. If he had been a story, he would have been one of those that nan never told, a tale without the inevitable: _what did you learn from this?_

Elissa lets the branch draw lines on the ground, invisible in the soft grass but still there somehow. Squares and circles and flowers. 

“We called it kings and rebels,” she says, to the ground and to him. She wants to talk tonight. Wants to hear someone else in her head, feel someone else's words echo inside. 

Loghain seems to understand. “Kings and rebels?”

“When we played in Highever,” she explains, a little self-conscious all of a sudden. “My brother Fergus was always King Maric. He would run around with his wooden sword and we had to relent because he was king. It was a bloody unfair game, come to think of it.”

Loghain makes a small muffled noise that sounds suspiciously close to laughter. She didn't know he could laugh. It is a nice surprise. 

“And who were you? The Orlesian emperor?” 

“Ah, _well._ I was stuck being the Hero of River Dane,” she says in a tone that doesn't betray the embarrassment of admitting such a thing, the lingering traces of childhood-hero worship stuck in her throat as Loghain looks at her, _definitely_ amused now. “It's the hair.” 

_My daughter the raven,_ her father used to say, running his hands through her thick, jet-black curls that were always so dirty and full of leaves and twigs, no matter what her mother did or how many strong-smelling oils and soaps she presented the maids with. 

“The hair,” Loghain repeats. 

“Oh, yes.”

The silence grows less harsh between them. Elissa rests her head in one hand and watches the Mabari trying to place its entire body in Loghain's lap - with moderate success - resulting mostly in Loghain being gently shoved into the stones behind them and the dog's hind legs dangling mid-air. Amazingly, neither of them seem to mind. Loghain rubs the animal's head affectionately and Dog might just die happy where he is, outstretched and showered in attention. 

“So,” Loghain interrupts her thoughts, his voice even but with a urgent tone hidden somewhere beneath all his momentum and masks. “Tell me about darkspawn. Everything you have learned.”

“Darkspawn?” she asks, even though she knows what he _means._ All aspects of it. 

“You heard me, Warden.”

And she talks. Unrelentingly, she talks, her words like an open wound. She talks about Ostagar, about meeting the first genlock, about emissary magic, about ogres and Broodmothers and the taint; she explains what little she knows of Grey Warden neutrality, of their allies and history; she talks about why people don't believe in Blights and the secrets they keep. 

Loghain listens. 

Elissa once tells Alistair, her mouth full of held-back tears and weary bitterness, that her home is with the Grey Wardens. 

As the sun slowly rises in front of them, bringing with it a layer of light and life to their camp, she watches Loghain take out the packages of bread and cheese while Wynne pops out of her tent to join them. It seems something has shifted overnight. The air seems lighter, the ground firmer. 

And she understands, as the realisation brushes against her mind, that there are meanings of the word _home_ she has yet to discover.


	4. And my sin is ever before me

Loghain has missed sleeping out in the wilds. 

He has missed the morning air that is thin and _crisp_ and easy to breathe, has missed the hunting and the archaic cooking rituals, the night watch by the fire and the endless roads. His body is older than last time he was living like this, but all it takes is a few nights to remind it. His bones remember battle, his heart recalls being forever travelling. 

The novelty is how much time he has to spare. Without his maps and quills, without commanders to command, banns to argue with and kings to coddle he finds the long stretches of evening and the quiet hours of night almost unsettling. 

When they are not in motion, everyone has their occupations and those are the fixed spots in this quickly changing world, impossible to upset. Loghain knows the pattern well. 

He hunts when he can, bringing back rabbits and birds to their camp; he skins the animals with the eager assistance of the Mabari and if he becomes too restless, he sometimes takes over the Warden's duty to gather wood for the fire. And he tends to his weapons and armour, which is less and less satisfying the longer they travel. 

As they leave the Dalish outpost and head west, Loghain's breastplate is rammed by a Hurlock axe and he lets out a litany of curses – not for the wound, but for the tear in the metal. 

“I suspect that suit of armour has merged with your skin by now,” Maric says in his head, in a tone he developed over the last couple of years of his life. Those years when they had made too much of a ruin of each other to truly be friends, but neither of them knew anything else so they kept at it. 

And the Maric in his memories is right, of course. The Battle at River Dane was more than a battle, it was a birth of sorts. He had rode into the horde of his men – beaten, bloody and exhausted – carrying the helmet of the defeated Orlesian Commander and they had all _roared_ in response. In that moment it was all worth it, for all of them, no matter the cost of victory. He kept the armour. Dressed in something belonging to the enemy, something that had been wielded and measured after someone else's dimensions, Loghain found that it was simpler to transform himself. 

Running his hands over the metal, he is in another army, fighting another war for another cause, and he is reluctant to let the image go as a voice calls out for him. 

They have stopped to heal their wounds and rest; the others have scampered off to perform their little habits after battle and he remains with their packs and tents, trying to decide if there is still a point in mending the holes and dents in the massive silverite. 

_“Loghain!”_

He looks up to find Wynne staring at him, hands on hips and a displeased expression in her face. Had the Warden been present, he would have expected a reluctant healing spell but the Circle mage, when not following orders, has no sympathy to offer him. Not that he has any burning need for it, but he had perhaps thought her the subtle sort. One of those self-righteous cows who hide their cowardice behind a scholar's wording or a Chant of Light. But he has learned in recent days that the mage is anything but discreet. 

“Yes?” he replies, stopping the movement of his hands. 

“I want to talk to you.”

Loghain shrugs, and rises to his full height, leaving the armour on the ground. The mage looks over her shoulder very briefly, as if she must ensure that nobody else will hear them. 

”What are you playing at?” she asks. 

He hesitates before answering, uncertain of what exactly he is being asked. “I beg your pardon?”

“She's young, but she's no fool,” she clarifies. “She hasn't forgotten what you've done.”

This is the remarkable thing about _true_ fools, Loghain thinks wearily. Their tendency to believe everyone is as insipid as they are when they present their revelations to the world. 

“Madam, I have no idea what you're trying to suggest.” He makes an effort to sound respectful, civilised. Maker knows he has had practice over the years. “Speak plainly. If you wish to accuse me of something, do it. But if the crime you're suggesting is one of underestimating our general, then I am not guilty. I have no delusions about being able to fool her.”

“I'll be watching you, Loghain Mac Tir,” she scoffs, in some half-hearted conclusion. He still is unsure what the inquiry truly was. 

“Certainly. If that amuses you, feel free.”

The mage just shakes her head and walks away, and Loghain grinds his teeth as he squats down among his things again. The pulsating ache in his back seems to move up along his spine, towards his temples and forehead. He grimaces at his distorted reflection in the surface of what has been his second skin for almost thirty years. 

 

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All night the blasted woman's words bother him. 

He, too, wonders what in the Maker's name he is playing at. 

Loghain prides himself on being a practical man. He isn't superstitious, does not dwell on the concept of sin and knows, better than most, the difference between duty and desire. 

He holds very few regrets. Regret is simple and choices never are. There are moments – growing in numbers the older he gets – when he _mourns_ the choices he has made but he does not _regret_ them because regretting something means you would have done differently if given the opportunity. And he would not have. 

What he has done he would do again. To Maric, to himself, to Rowan, to Cailan, to the men and women sacrificed in the name of Ferelden. Necessity will always be more important than sentiment and someone has to shoulder the responsibilities. This is a clear-cut fact. 

And yet.

Yet he suddenly finds that he regrets this past year, in a way that tugs at his defences and exposes parts of him he has not acknowledged in years. And in these moments he is a young man again, on his knees in front of Sister Ailis. He is _young_ , and he cannot recall ever having asked forgiveness for anything before, yet there he is and the words that come out of his mouth are crushed beneath their own weight. 

“Forgive me,” he says. Over and over he says it. “Please, _forgive_ me.” 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Mother Ailis whispers, stroking his hair, and Loghain _hates_ her, almost as much as he hates himself, for lying to him. 

He wonders if it's the same twisted mercy he seeks in the Warden, if that is nature of the hold she has on him, the inexplicable grasp around his throat. He wonders if he wishes to kill her or prove his worth, confirm the reason behind her disdain or be the hero he never was. 

And he wonders what a man who no longer wants to be forgiven and who doesn't forgive anyone for anything, would even do with her mercy if she offered it. 

 

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Two days from the Circle Tower, they stop near Lake Calenhad and strike up their camp for the night. Loghain has slept badly, his dreams disturbed not only by the taint but also by injuries that won't heal, that illogically seem to get _worse_ the more he rests. He doubts the mage would degrade herself to touch it, and he can't find the energy to care.

After the Orlesian bard has served her stew – that he has to admit doesn't taste half as bad as he would like to be able to claim – and the witch of the wilds has washed the pots and bowls, he reaches for one of his packs and walks down to the lake to wash himself. 

At least the water offers some alleviation for whatever it is that pains him. He does not know how much time has passed while he has been down there, but upon his return to the place where he left his clothes, he finds that he's not alone. 

“ _Oh!_ ” His intrusive general lets out a little sound of surprise when she notices the same thing. 

“Warden,” he greets her, dispassionately, turning his back on her to put on his trousers. 

“My apologies,” she says, her voice not betraying any embarrassment she might feel. “When I followed you here I didn't think you would... well, I wasn't planning on invading your _privacy._ ”

It amuses him to think of what a sheltered soldier's life she must have led if she still considers privacy an option. Perhaps they have drawn a bathing schedule. 

“Since I have a hard time imagining it was an overwhelming urge to see me without clothes that brought you here, I believe you.” He works on the laces without looking up, then he turns around. “What _do_ you want?” 

She gives him a strange look that he can't interpret. Her gaze is firm and scrutinizing but she shifts a little where she stands, folding her arms. A moment passes between them where he is certain he is being _watched_ , like a curious object put on display, and possibly _measured._ Against what scale, he thankfully does not know. He looks around for his shirt. 

“You were hurt,” she says finally. “In the battle, before. And you didn't receive any healing.”

Loghain scoffs at her. There is no rest in this blasted company, no single spot where he can be alone.

“So you followed me here to inform me of something I already know?” The words come out low, ragged. Raking one hand through his wet hair, he sighs heavily. “Just... leave me be.”

Amazingly, she steps closer, until she is only inches away. He can feel her breath on his skin and it makes the hair on his arms stand up. 

”You have a wound on your back,” she says matter-of-factly. ”It looks infected.”

”I'm sure it will heal in time,” he snaps, grabbing the shirt and striding quickly back to camp. But she follows suit, stubborn as sin, catching his arm before he has time to escape into his tent. He jerks away at her touch. ” _Don't -_ ”

”Andraste's flaming sword, Loghain! Don't be an _ass_!”

”I don't need a nursemaid.” He lowers his voice when the assassin is giving them wide-eyed glances. Without looking back at her, he proceeds into the tent.

She is _right_ about the sodding wound, of course. It does feel terrible and he is in no particular hurry to have his shirt chafe against it again. 

In truth, he chides himself for being ridiculous – he spent the better part of his youth tending to wounds among the rebel army soldiers; both Maric and Rowan and several of their loyal warriors had bandaged him up, sucked poison out of his flesh, washed him and tucked him into bed like a child. 

This is different. 

He did the same for them, all those years ago. They all did, for each other. That is how you live, pressed so tightly together there are no longer clear lines where you end and someone else begin. It had felt seamless. But this is a grown man's memories of youth, he realises, made smooth and soft by age and time when in reality it _was_ an awkward struggle. All transformation begins with tearing something away, melting it, burning it down – and then reshaping it, pretending it has always been clay. 

This is not so different. _He_ is different. He is an old, bitter man who is unused to following orders he does not intend to dismiss from superiors he does not intend to disrespect. 

Loghain groans irritably to himself, burying his face in his hands. 

”Good, you haven't put the shirt back on again,” Elissa's voice startles him, as does the chilly gust of wind from the opening in the tent when she steps inside. Obviously unperturbed by his overly emotional denial before, she brings a handful of bandages and a few bottles that she places on the ground beside his bedroll before closing the tent, carefully. 

And then she sits down behind him and Loghain just can't find the strength to argue so he takes a deep breath and leans slightly forward. 

”Now, I do not possess a gentle touch so this _will_ probably hurt a lot.”

“I am so glad you decided to come over then,” he mutters. 

He flinches and feels his entire body tense when she puts a wet piece of cloth to his back and slowly drags it along the injury, every inch of the process leaving a stinging ache behind; then she repeats it so many times he has to battle the urge to yell. But at least the touch is softer than her words implied.

”The Hurlocks use poison sometimes,” she explains conversationally. “We learned it the hard way in the Deep Roads. Leliana got an infection that Wynne almost couldn't heal.”

Loghain says nothing in response to that. He closes his eyes. Soft fingertips trace the outlines of the wound and then further to the left, putting mild pressure to the flesh and muscles below his shoulder blade. 

“Did that hurt?” she asks. 

“Yes.” He swallows a deep, throaty moan of pain. “Why?”

“I'm checking to see if it has spread.” The light touch is back again; he relents somewhat against her palms and it makes it a little less painful. Her hands move along his sides and up towards his shoulders. “You're a poor soldier if you're dying from darkspawn infections.” 

“Isn't that precisely what we _are_ doing?”

“Yes, but not today.” Her hands disappear from his back for a few moments. Then they return and she is holding up a shred, wrapping it around his chest to fasten the poultice over his wound. Whatever the ingredients in it, it seems to burn away his flesh. As she changes position to tighten the knot, her kneecaps bump into his lower back; she uses his shoulders to regain her balance, her fingers digging into his skin. “ _Understood?_ ”

There is something that wants to be said, but the words don't agree, he can't find them. Loghain stares ahead, observing the contours of the others outside the tent where they are walking around like characters in a play, mutely showing them something. 

“Are we allies now?” he asks eventually. “Is that it? Just like that? I can't imagine it can be this simple.” 

The Warden is quiet for a while, moving from behind him to sit face to face. 

“This is hardly _simple._ ” Her voice is terse, slightly bitter. “It is what it is.”

“And what is that?”

They look at each other for a long period of time, in a manner that most of all reminds him of the duel at Landsmeet; threading carefully but refusing to back down one inch for fear – or anticipation – of losing. He is suddenly very _old._ And she is dark symmetry and ugly reflections, reminding him all too much of who he used to be; at the same time she is a well of light, the blade-sharp edge in her isn't cold and cracked like his own but just and good. Like Maric, she knows the power that lies in goodness, knows the weight of it, its value and use. 

Not turning her eyes away from his, she he reaches for his hand and places it on a bit of exposed skin along her neckline while putting her own on his chest. Loghain is about to object to the ridiculous idea when, like a hammer blow in his brain, he feels the dark surge of power inside him respond to the one that flows in her. Rushing between their bodies is the darkspawn taint, the noise and songs of her blood swirling around his heart, the fire in his veins battling the fire in hers. They are _kin_ , connected, tied to each other and their common duty. And he knows, without words, that he will be able to _feel_ her from now on, sense her presence inside his own. There is a painful intimacy in this. He tears his hand away. 

She looks at him, her lips parted as though she is about to smile, but she doesn't. 

“There you have it,” she says, almost breathless. _“This_ is what it is.”

She withdraws her hand from his chest, leaving a warm trace behind. “So what shall it be, Loghain. Will you stand with me?” 

In his memories he is asked the same question, just as belated, by the only other person he has ever served. Back then he had sworn his oath out of shame and guilt and gratitude – and _meant_ it, more than he had meant anything else in his life - and perhaps nothing ever truly changes after all. 

In his tent in this blasted camp on the way to certain death, Loghain offers his oath, again. 

”If you can make this war end, Warden, I will follow you.” He feels like he's down on one knee, looking up at her. ”I swear it.”

.  
.  
.  
.

 

He wakes up of his own accord the following morning, his head heavy with sleep but clear in a way that tells him the bandages have been of use. Even bread and cheese taste better than yesterday. He packs his things for departure, allowing the discarded armour to remain in the grass where it resembles the skin of a snake, shed and useless. 

“Elissa!” he calls out.

She looks at him across camp, in the process of stuffing her pack.

“Yes?”

“I need a new suit of armour.” He nods towards the pile of silvery plates that glimmers faintly when the morning sun hits them. 

“We have a few spare suits in Sten's pack,” she says, coming around to talk to him. “Some of them ought to fit you.”

Loghain nods. “Very well.”

It's a simple enough conversation and a simple enough choice. He picks the only armour that allows him to breathe freely and doesn't leave gaps along his sides. 

The memories of his past are so far away they have become another life altogether, all the colours faded like old paint, all the edges eroding with time. But here, in this place, he can feel them. He remembers vaguely how it felt, fighting for something he gradually understood he believed in; he remembers what it was like, not yet knowing the price of ideals. And how the costs, once he understood them, were made part of his new person and hidden well, deep beneath skin and scars, so nobody would have to _know._

But the Hero of River Dane is finally gone. 

Loghain wonders how many lives one man is granted and he swears to himself, adjusting the buckles and breastplate of a massive Warden commander armour, that this will be his last. 

 

 

\-------------------------------

**Notes:**

The memory with Ailis is borrowed from The Stolen Throne.


	5. Kingmakers

The messenger awaits them outside The Spoiled Princess. 

A letter, without a seal, containing very little information: there are rumours about survivors from Ostagar, hiding in Arl Loren's bannorn. As Elissa recites it to the group, it feels as endless as the journey that has taken them here; the scant words go on forever and crowd the air between them with possibilities and fears. Standing outside the tavern where she has decided they will remain until the approaching thunderstorm has passed and wasting a few silvers on proper lodgings for a change, they watch each other carefully. 

Nobody wants to be the first to speak. 

“This is likely to be a trap.” Loghain's eyes are fixed upon her when he breaks the silence. 

“One you set yourself?” She rolls up the letter and tucks it into her pouch. He still looks as intently at her, noticing the lack of vitriol in her question. 

“I might as well have.” He doesn't seem to mind the others. When he speaks of strategy or battle or tactics, he speaks to _her_ alone. “Tempting the Wardens to seek out a scene where they will be greeted by an ambush. A sound plan. Provided, of course, the Wardens are foolish enough to rise to the bait.”

“Or,” Leliana points out. “It could be a letter telling us about survivors in Bann Loren's lands.”

Loghain snorts. “Yes, there is _that_ , of course.”

“Oh, you _know_ I could be right.” Leliana folds her arms across her chest. 

“Now, I can understand why you would rather avoid confronting this possibility, Loghain.” Wynne steps forward, shoulder by shoulder with Leliana, as though she means to protect her. “But I would not object to having a closer look at it.”

Elissa sighs. They all look to her for a final, unfaltering word so with a little twitch of her neck, she gives it. 

“We will investigate the assertion, then. Loren’s bannorn is small and only a day’s journey from here.” 

“I object to this, _kadan._ ” Sten glares down at her, his voice low and grumbling like rocks clashing against each other or rolling off a mountain. “This is irrelevant.”

“Oh, but we have surely not avoided the irrelevant thus far,” Morrigan interposes, leaning casually against her staff. “This is hardly any different.”

“Slaying the Archdemon does seem more important,” Zevran says, shrugging. “However, I have not yet protested against your better judgement, my dear friend.”

For a second, Loghain looks like he is going to push the issue but catches the meaning of Elissa's glances, their inherent pleas of countenance – or he simply grows tired of arguing, she can't say which. He says nothing and starts carrying their packs over the threshold of the tavern. 

Elissa misses Alistair, violently and suddenly, like a jolt of the lightening they are expecting tonight. He flares up inside her, his voice and _face_ , the way he would stand there beside her now – stand _behind_ her - not because he necessarily would want to go but because he would want to agree or at the very least defend her. The guilty satisfaction in that, in holding that sort of power over someone; it soars through her head. He was always hers much more than she was his. 

“We travel tomorrow morning,” she says, sharply. “Let us haul our things inside before the storm is upon us.”

That night, they eat too much of their food, drink too much of the wine the barkeeper lets them have for free and speak almost nothing of the things that matter. One by one her companions drop off, the prospect of sleeping indoors in a bed all the more alluring after a few servings of the sweet wine. Eventually only Elissa and Wynne remain, sitting side by side in a corner of the deserted room. 

“I think it was ill-advised, making the Teyrn a Grey Warden,” Wynne states in her implacable way, hands occupying themselves with an empty stoup. “Alistair was right, there should be honour in fighting for the Wardens.”

It's the first time anyone says _anything_ about it to her face, yet the words seem to be echoes; repetitive chains of reproach and questions already posed because she has asked herself this over and over since Landsmeet. 

”You say that.” Elissa empties her cup; there's still a big gap of hunger left but she can ignore it better with a stomach full of wine. ”But you know the legends, the _myths_.”

”I have _met_ a few Wardens in my time, young lady.”

Ignoring that remark, Elissa leans back, observing the mage. 

“Alistair knows nothing of our order.” Her voice is as dull as the sound of metal against stone, as cold as weapons laid down on the cold Palace floor. “He believes in the legends because he wants to. Duncan saved him from a fate he despised and that made him a hero in Alistair's eyes.”

“Wasn't he?” Wynne's question is soft-spoken but there is a severity in her gaze, in the way her fingers tap against the bottle, waiting for her answer. “A hero?”

“Is anyone in Duncan's position ever that simple?”

“No, I suppose not.” She sighs. “I'm sorry, idealism isn't becoming for someone my age.”

They sit together without speaking for some time. And it's pleasant if not _comforting_ , like Wynne's company used to be when they shared long watch hours and narrated their favourite books and stories to each other to pass time. Tales of childish brutality and honour, of griffons and dragons; in the still hours sometimes, Wynne would speak of the Fade and Elissa would almost be able to taste lyrium at the back of her tongue, feel the flow of magic in the tip of her fingers. 

There is this certainty about Wynne, this unswerving _conviction_ , that states that things will go well because she _says_ so. Elissa has sought it out many times, needed it. Tonight it tastes of ashes and grief, an old woman's attempts at deflecting reality. But there is somehow comfort in that, too, in being less than perfect. 

”Riordan told me how Duncan became a Grey Warden,” Elissa says eventually. “He was going to be executed for murder. The Commander, whose betrothed he had killed, no less, conscripted him into her order as a punishment. But also because she saw something in him that could be useful.”

”And that is what you see in Loghain?” Wynne looks at her. “Usefulness?”

Through the open door Elissa watches the lake. Foaming salty water and the sharp touch of blood in her nostrils as she recalls travelling over it, hands shaking with everything they had seen. It was not so long ago that the Tower burned and she was in the middle of it, stepping over corpses and monsters. It was not all Loghain's doing but he isn't without blame. So much that is his fault, so many crimes that cannot be overlooked even in times of desperation and so little reason for that tug inside, the voice that _persists_. It resembles the play of wind over the lake that is whipping up wreaths of foam in the dark blue and unfurling it again immediately, like ink dissolving on a sheet of paper. She think she knows him, or something about him, and he disappears before her eyes. 

”He's proven himself so far, has he not?” 

In her memories he is the celebrated hero - strong, stoic, steely - who stood tall when everyone had been defeated, who led Ferelden to victory; she is afraid to ask herself how much of her idea of him that comes from childhood fantasies and feather bed-dreams warming the long Highever winters. She is afraid, too, to find out when the strategy morphed into trust. 

In her memories he is raising his sword in the Palace, ready to fight to his death without a single fear, with more hope than tremor. She can see it in his eyes. 

“He has fallen a long way, my dear.” Wynne pats her arm, oblivious to the fact that she just read Elissa's mind. “You would do well to remember this.”

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

During the journey to Bann Loren's lands, it's Shale who first speaks of the things nobody will say.

“So, it has overcome its ill-fated relationship with its fellow Warden, then?” the Golem asks, walking five feet behind the others. The question seems to silence everything else, even the rustling of trees and chirping of birds and Elissa's throat is suddenly _parched._

“Are you concerned for my well-being, Shale?” she manages. 

“Now, now, let's not jump to conclusions.” Shale snorts. “It has not been as pathetic as one might assume its kind is when relationships are involved. So I was curious to find out if its has merely come to its senses.”

“Alistair is going to be the King of Ferelden.” Elissa wonders how many times she has worded this sentence in her head, carefully and hesitantly, then with increasing force the closer they came to Denerim. “So I suppose I have, yes.” 

“Good.”

A silence forms in the wake of Shale's odd concern, one that cannot be broken with words or even a stop for lunch. Hands dismantling the bread, unfolding the piece of cloth reserved for meals and placing it on a cleared spot the ground; the plethora of banal movements that swallow every intention to speak. Elissa welcomes it. 

When they start walking again, she quickens her pace to keep up with Sten and Loghain at the head of the group. 

“Kadan,” Sten says, nodding. She offers him a grateful smile. 

Loghain says nothing but he gazes sideways at her for a very long time, his expression unreadable. 

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

As soon as they meet the broken man who once served as King Cailan's advisor, there is no room for doubts. The question becomes not _if_ they are returning to Ostagar but _how_ they are returning to Ostagar without falling prey to possible darkspawn plots along the way. 

“We can't know what awaits us there,” Elissa says, looking at Wynne and Loghain who flank her in their march towards the unavoidable. “We will have to be prepared for anything.”

“If it's a trap, how do we survive it?” Sten asks, turning his head back to look at them. He is close to losing his patience, she spots it in how the corners of his mouth twitch when he speaks. “That is still the plan, is it not?”

She inhales, preparing for an explanation that will satisfy even a Qunari, but Loghain forestalls her. 

“Ostagar is a location that allows us to remain largely unnoticed to any enemy waiting for us there,” he says in a tone that is entirely closed off to any protests. “It will be simple to use its structure to stay in the shadows until we know the nature of the scenario.”

“Very well,” Sten mutters.

If Loghain was a man made for gratitude and favours, this would have merited a _thank you_. Instead they just proceed, solemn and quiet, side by side.

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

It's close. 

She can tell by the trembling in her chest, by the looks Loghain gives her when he thinks she doesn't watch him. With every step they take, the past bleeds into the present, leaving a horrible wound behind that she is uncertain of how to tend to. 

_Ostagar._ It has been so long but never long enough. She wonders if she is still that same person who came there last time, raw with loss and fury and not posing enough questions about her new future. She who sort of _fell_ into it all, biting back screams. 

Joining the Grey Wardens has hardened her. Battle, she assumes, hardens everyone without any particular mercy but she carries the fight inside, she _is_ the battlefield; when she is closing her eyes her bones whisper songs of darkness that will increase with time, temptations that she will not allow herself to succumb to and sacrifices waiting to happen. It darkens her, dresses her in grey steel and impenetrable stone and it builds _walls_. Already the world presents itself differently to her and as the difference grows she is falling, becoming more and more of a stranger to everyone who cannot feel the taint, cannot recognise the heartbreaking cruelty of a war that is never _won_. 

Tonight they seek shelter in another abandoned tavern near Lothering, in a town that is inhabited only by ghosts and stray darkspawn. The Blight has taken the rest. Elissa sits alone on the floor in what once was the kitchen, resting the back of her head against a table. This is a no man's land and its scents are leaving her breathless. It smells of stale old alcohol and murky wood, of unwashed floors and of rain, slipping in through every flaw in the walls. It smells of the people who used to live their lives here, dream their dreams here, kiss each other and their children, curl up together in the dark and pray for a morning. 

Elissa looks at the flask in her hand, studies its shape and content. It's brandy. Warm, strong brandy with only the faintest whisper of bitterness. 

_Ostagar_ and she never thought she would see it again, or always assumed it would be with Alistair. 

She feels Loghain's presence in the room before he speaks. 

”You did the right thing,” he says. ”With Maric's bastard.”

It's still unfamiliar to her, his habit of stating so precisely what he wishes to say and _say_ it, then nothing else. At first it struck her as uncommunicative, but it is rather the opposite. He strips language down to the bare necessities, and what he says is what he means, cruel or kind. She finds a peculiar pleasure in that. He stands beside her now; she has to tilt her head far back to see his face. Grimacing as the table corner bump into her skull, Elissa adjusts her position. 

”I know,” she replies and it's not a lie. She knows. When they stumbled into each other, blood singing and heads spinning and reality be _damned_ , she had still known. She had known since he confessed his heritage because she's a Teyrn's daughter and a rational one at that. It has always been a game of thrones.

”My daughter would have been better off without him, but it will be good for Ferelden.” He sighs. “Hopefully it will appease even Eamon.”

”Yes.” Elissa takes another gulp, filling her mouth completely. Then another one, while the first is swirling dangerously in her half-empty stomach. She holds up the bottle. “Brandy?”

In the corner of her eyes she can discern his face and notices that he's shaking his head. She has another go at the draught that vastly improves as it's travelling down her throat. Turning around on the floor to be able to look at her companion, Elissa leans against the wall, legs tucked in underneath her and cheeks flushed. The effect of her drinking is smothering the wrinkles on her forehead and in her heart, stroking her mind with gentle hands. She holds up the bottle again and Loghain takes it this time, but he doesn't drink, he looks at it and then puts it away on the table. 

”I am... aware of how difficult that choice must have been.” He can make his voice so soft sometimes, Elissa thinks, closing her eyes. ”It will help, knowing that your decision was the right one.”

In her mind, somewhere far away, she has a knowledge – or a fraction of one, faint and fading – that seems to correspond with what he is telling her, almost _confessing_ to her. She tries to reach it by looking at him, reading it in his face, but he turns his gaze to the floor and it's gone again. 

Neither of them speak for what seems to be a long time and in the quietude Elissa remembers urgent conversations in camp, hushed up and burning and _you are going to be king_ , like it was her throne. Like she was giving him a choice. Truth be told, _this_ is the heart of her grief. 

“I always knew how it would be.” She tells it to the walls, unsure if Loghain is still in the room. The brandy has dulled the songs in her head, calmed the blood and cracked her open. “And I knew what I was... going to do. He never wanted the throne, he would have been happy giving it to Anora. I wanted him to have the throne.”

“You did what was necessary,” Loghain says. “Calenhad's claim of the crown is still strong, Fereldans wants their royals to have his blood. Even I must admit that.”

“ _Necessity._ ” The word has a blurred edge tonight, but rolls off her tongue like a curse all the same. “I feel like... it feels like I have _condemned_ him. What sort of person can do that to someone they-”

“A person who realises that she is responsible for a lot more than just her own happiness,” Loghain interrupts, harshly. “Who sees that there are thousands and thousands of people living or dying based on her decisions.”

“I'm-” she begins, but is interrupted when Loghain crouches down in front of her, his hands on her shoulders as he forces her to look at him. His breath is warm against her cheeks. There's a crease in his forehead that she has not seen before, a cruelty in his eyes that seem to reach inwards, aiming at nobody but himself. 

“A person who is strong enough to lead others, brave enough to do so and _good_ enough to question her own heart when she makes these kind of decisions.” He sounds almost pleading now. She wants to touch his face, see if the pain in it goes away or if it's permanent. If she will always feel this way, too. _Kingmakers_ , she thinks, _Maker have mercy on us._

But Loghain gets to his feet again and leaves, before she can command herself to respond. 

Elissa doesn't know how much time that passes between Loghain's hands on her shoulders and the soft fingers that come after, gently scooping up strands of her hair that has fallen into her eyes. She has remained on the floor, watching the bruises on her left wrist and pondering whether or not the scratch on her right arm is deep enough to require bandages. Probably not. 

“Loghain sent me,” Leliana says, untangling Elissa's hair as she sits down beside her. 

“Loghain? Why?”

“Oh, I didn't ask. He is a very forceful man. When he tells you to do something, you just want to obey him.” She chuckles softly. “That came out wrong, I think.”

Elissa looks at her and can't help but smile because it's _Leliana._

Leliana who is a ripple of laughter in Elissa's body, who is nights and moths and stolen sips of Wynne's wine, whispered conversations in a language that is entirely their own and consists of gestures by signs and hands, clasped together and intertwined, dancing lightly on lines they have both avoided to draw. 

Leliana who is _here_ , in this awful place where things have started to _spin_ , but her shape in the darkness is firm and unmoving. Elissa leans against her.

“My Warden,” Leliana mumbles, stroking her arm. “You are sad tonight.”

“Tell me a story,” Elissa says and she is a little girl, bored to tears by nan's moral tales of dogs and dragons that always, invariably, ends in a lesson but that still serve their purpose. Bard tales are different. 

“Which one would you like to hear?” 

“It doesn't matter.”

Their hands over each other in Elissa's lap and their fingers tugging at nails and seams, absent-mindedly and lovingly as the night pass above their heads and the room stops spinning. Close to dawn Elissa realises she has been sleeping without recalling falling asleep and when she looks up, Leliana's smile dances in the sunlight. 

Today they will reach Ostagar.


	6. That I loved Rome more

_If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar,  
this is my answer:   
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.  
_  
 **William Shakespeare**  
 _Julius Caesar,_ Act 3, Scene 2

* * *  


There are places where time stands still because everything has already happened, every possibility already exhausted and all prospect of change lost.

As they arrive in Ostagar, Loghain is certain of it. 

Last time he came here, Cauthrien rode by his side and he had a head full of fragments and doubts that he didn't share with her. _A fool's war_ , she had cursed under her breath and he had not berated her for speaking that way of the King's orders.

The woman walking beside him now reminds him vaguely of Cauthrien when he thinks about it, they share an uncompromising strength and a way of carrying themselves that allows no demeaning or patronising treatment. Loghain has recruited many women over the years and while none of them will ever be described as gentle flowers or blushing maidens, few are bold enough to be soldiers using the same premises as their male counterparts, _demanding_ the right. He always prefers those who do. 

“The darkspawn activity is still strong here,” the Warden remarks, holding out her hand as if to feel the air. Loghain's head sings with noise, too; he hasn't been alone in his own thoughts since they left the tavern this morning. 

“Magic?” he suggests. 

Frowning, she nods. “You might be right.”

It has become increasingly uncomfortable being _right._

Before they properly enter the scene of the battle, Loghain feels a light touch of a hand on his arm and when he turns his head Elissa smiles, a small, tucked-in smile that he gathers is meant for him alone. He is uncertain which is more gut-wrenchingly _pathetic_ : that she, who was left to die here, has sensed his need for encouragement or the fact that he, who left her to die, accepts it without hesitation. 

“If it's not too much to ask of a commanding officer, just keep your moralising to a minimum,” he mutters, mostly to himself, not expecting an answer. 

“I'll try,” she responds wryly. 

And so they return to Ostagar. 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

The blasted ruins are still there, like memories. 

It was the same, all those years ago. 

After the battles were done and Maric had claimed his throne, travelling back through Ferelden was like walking through the past, no longer understanding it, or making sense of the signs and symbols. For all their youth and inexperience, waging war was something they could comprehend, given time and practice. 

The aftermath was different. 

The differences between war and _not_ war. All the new rules, their meanings and limits: it had been like learning how to live after a long absence, measuring how to look at people, how to speak, how to walk. The shift between murder and necessary death, between necessity and the unbearable. Everything is changed during a war. All must change, every subtle cruelty of victory, of loss. There are glances reserved for those you will later massacre or watch die, those you will send off into battles without hope of victory. You adopt postures and movements, gestures, for containing what cannot possibly be said. 

And once it is over, he has found out, you mustn't let the mutual sacrifices made or the hollow places in your hearts be known, lest you wish people to understand the truth. You must learn once again what it means to be human so that the people never suspects you had to give that knowledge up, in order to _win_. 

After the Orlesians had been driven out the Fereldans were insatiable, a roaring crowd of vultures devouring their heroes, drowning them in crowns and banners and statues. Maric and Rowan and Loghain bowed their heads and rose to the occasion, becoming kings and heroes, leaving everything else behind. 

Leaving their humanity, because worship demanded _gods_. 

And they did all they could, the best they could. This is one thing he is absolutely certain of: they did their best, did _everything_ no matter the cost or because of the cost. 

It was not enough. In the end, they were just mortals. Maric was a man, a remarkable and occasionally brilliant man capable of great deeds. But a man, all the same, who buried his wife too soon and died at sea. Ferelden forgave him because they had no other king at their disposal, least of all a king who drove the occupying forces out. Maric was forgiven. Because he had a beautiful, _powerful_ dead wife and because he had Loghain, who reminded him of the war Maric tried to appease his conscience by forgetting. 

Together, they could make up for what they lacked in divinity. 

And Cailan never could. 

Maric's son was _young_ even nearing thirty, his flaws running deeper, his mistakes unforgivable simply because there was nothing to balance it. 

Long before the battle, Cailan was _lost_. Loghain knows the games. 

The mage in his present company does not. Her glares rest on him regardless of what he does – fighting darkspawn or cleaning his sword or shuffling lumber off abandoned treasure chests and corpses – and he groans, coming to a halt. 

“Just _speak_ , madam.”

“I do not know how to fully express my dislike for you,” she responds, honest as always. 

Loghain sneers. “Well, give it your best try. You can start by telling me if you truly think this battle could have been won, regardless of what I did?”

“I think your King could have been saved, had you not already counted him among the casualties.” 

And there it is. It is spoken. She looks directly at him, lips pursed. 

”You think me a seer then, madam?” he asks, weary of the fact that her gaze isn't the only one that is headed in his direction. 

“I think you a cold opportunist, Loghain Mac Tir. Tell me, was it the throne you desired?”

Elissa makes a disdainful sound at that, surprising both Loghain and the mage, who looks at her and frowns.

“For such a grandiose scheme to work,” she says, “he would initially have required my father's support. The Howes are our _vassals_ and largely overlooked among the nobility. My father, on the other hand, was a powerful man and well liked. It would be a fine plot: the last remaining Teyrns uniting over a common enemy – the weak King - drawing support from the many lords and ladies who wanted my father on the throne after King Maric's death _as well as_ the noblemen in favour of Anora. Once the country was looking in the same direction, Loghain would be free to solve matters and terminate my father's reign.”

Her posture changes as she speaks of this matter, Loghain notices. Her back straightened, her head held high; even her voice has a deeper tone. She's the Teyrn she will never be and she is, he must admit, quite magnificent. 

“Ah,” Zevran says in the background, “you could have been an Antivan royalty, my dear. Such cynicism and splendour.” 

The Warden smiles at the elf, then nods curtly at Wynne and Loghain, seemingly finished with her monologue. 

“Believe me, madam, if it was the throne I wanted, I could have _taken_ it during the rebellion,” Loghain adds, because he is unable to control his irritation in this place, it brings out the blasted fool in him. 

“Oh, is that so?” Wynne, hands on hips, doesn't step down, and in its own way it might be considered brave. She thinks him a demon after all. “Do you have royal blood, Loghain Mac Tir?”

“Royal blood doesn't win a war. You know that as well as I do.” He feels his own voice shift, threading dangerously now on grounds where he has not allowed himself to be in many years. “Even so, why would I wait until the people of Ferelden has already forgotten what I have done for them to set my grand master plan into motion? You think me capable of great evil, madam. So be it. But don't insult us both with this reasoning. It is unworthy of you.”

She sighs. In her face he can see such deep-rooted ideals, such determination and a pride coming from it that appears to be the source of her very existence. He suddenly finds himself envious, of all things. 

“Don't play innocent,” she says, simply. 

He has to laugh bitterly at that. 

“What on the Maker's earth has given you the impression that I _deny_ my guilt?” 

It has the expected effect on her – admission usually has – and for a while they proceed in silence. Sooner than expected they can localise Cailan's chest, which brings them to a long rest during which Loghain read the correspondence several times, his blood boiling; Elissa stands beside him, peering over his shoulder, but making no comment about what she sees. 

And then, thankfully, a crowd of darkspawn rouges interrupt any attempt at conversation for a good hour. 

.  
.  
.  
. 

 

They find him in pieces. 

A pair of gloves, snatched from the body of a defeated genlock, paraded about like a spoil of war. 

His breastplate, his helmet, all parts of him worn by the enemy and held up in the false triumph, as though it was the darkspawn that really killed him. Loghain shoves the metal into a trunk, wondering if the Warden will wear it. Wonders, too, if he could bear it. 

Cailan in his memories, fragments as broken and spread out as the remains of his defeat. 

“Mother says you will teach me how to ride a horse,” the little boy with the very blond hair states, no more than seven years of age that summer when Rowan is so ill Maric takes their son and travel across the country. 

Cailan as a very young man, lordly and awkward in equal measures, and utterly under Anora's command, smiling foolishly at everything she says; he is so much like his father in her company, so much Maric that Loghain feels his chest tighten and he looks away. One child is more than enough, more than he can protect. 

And Anora before him, biting back tears. 

She's the hangman's daughter, he tells Celia many years earlier in another life. A hangman's child, heavy with the weight of the dead and soiled with their taint, would never make friends. Their courtyard is a gallows hill. 

Don't be _absurd_ , Celia says in the beginning, but the certainty in her voice fades over the years. 

And he is a father, in all the decisions he is also a _father_ and if all daughters are forever six years old with pigtails, then all fathers are forever invincible heroes who can alter the skies; when Anora stands before him with Eamon's letters in her hands, she is the little girl who couldn't conquer the hard child-hearts of Gwaren and the armour around his heart is shattered, once again. 

_Cailan,_ she says, like a prayer and a curse all at once. _The bastard._

Cailan. 

They find him in pieces and intact, crucified like a criminal in the middle of the bridge. 

Loghain wonders what sort of dark magic that can keep a body from decaying for all these months, but he cannot bring himself close enough to examine the corpse. The stench is overwhelming, yet the shape of the man is the one of the foolish boy he left to die, his face closed in defeat. 

Ostagar is the place, the precise point in time where everything became unchangeable. Everything before turning pale and insignificant, everything after impossible to avoid. 

To retreat: the very absence of action. And it turned the world upside down. 

Loghain walks back, tracking his own steps and finds them slipping from beneath his feet, their constant nature eluding him. Returning here makes it different. Not undone, but never the same. 

They hold a burial feast for Maric even though there is no body and Loghain stands in his Orlesian armour all night, watching the nobles run in circles around him, all of them desperate to prove how _earnestly_ they will miss the King. They are poor liars and Loghain, too sober for charades, shoves Bann Loren into the wall, one second away from cracking his skull. Cailan stands between them in a heartbeat, _frowning_ , and then Anora's hands, dragging him away. 

Loghain buries his second king with little more than a shrug, wishing he could be forgotten. A blank slate. 

“We'll walk for a while before we put up camp,” Elissa announces tonelessly once the pyre has finally burned down. She looks exhausted and is still carrying Cailan's chest full of weapons; he notices she has lashed it to her back with a spare rope. “I can't wait to get out of here.”

Nobody protests.

 

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That night they eat in silence, in their own separate worlds, saying nothing to each other beyond the necessary. Hunger is the last thing Loghain feels. Even his fellow Warden seems to have a hard time finishing her bowl of stew, stirring it aimlessly and gazing out over camp. She changed here, too, he understands. It feels a lifetime ago now, that night when he and Cailan parted ways for the last time. 

Good luck, Cailan had said and nodded. 

May the Maker watch over you, Loghain had replied and he had meant it. 

He wishes they were close to water because he could do with a long, thorough washing to get the stench off his hands, his skin branded with death and decay. 

At the incursion of darkness, he slumps down close to the fire and far from the others, with his back to their tents and their faces, wishing he at least had delusions about his actions to cling to. But he is nothing if not honest. 

”So, how did I fare?” Elissa's voice cuts into his solitude. 

Loghain looks up. ”I beg your pardon?”

”With the minimum of moralising.” She sits down, her dog darting after her like an unnaturally quick shadow, wedging himself between the ground and her body, an affectionate worm-creature. If it could, it would probably be in her arms like an overgrown child. Adalla, as he remembers her, had more dignity. 

”Ah.” He watches the flames. Save the distant noise of wild animals, the camp is very serene; the lack of shadows suggests that the others have already turned to their tents and bedrolls for the night. Only the Wardens left. Their shared watches have become habitual, he would probably find it odd to meet another companion by the fire at night and he cannot imagine anyone else having the desire to be alone with him. A general has to take on some unpleasant duties even in this group, he supposes. ”You did well.”

“I thought so.” Elissa yawns, rubbing her neck absent-mindedly. ”It's _odd_ returning here.”

”To say the least.”

Then they speak of nothing for a very long time. Loghain thinks about what they found, about Maric's sword and Cailan's private correspondence that still seem unfathomably _stupid_ and makes Loghain's fingers itch with the need to strangle someone. 

”You and Anora knew of Eamon's plans, I assume.” She raises and eyebrow, questioningly, and he feels transparent before her gaze. “The poisoning took place before you came to Ostagar, no?”

He thinks of Anora's face, how she had looked at him with fear for the first time in her life, tugging at his sleeves, asking him to forget what she just said. The girl behind her eyes, peering through years and layers of political power, laying bare the banal terrors of childhood: to _not_ be chosen and then to have others witness this failure. To have _him_ witness their shared failure, he who possessed enough power and had nothing left to lose. 

”Yes,” he admits. ”Yes, I knew. We knew. I didn't know how close he was to forging unbreakable bonds with the empress, however.”

”Andraste's _ass_ ,” Elissa says quietly. “I nearly forgot that part. My father would never have stood for it.” 

”No.” Loghain shakes his head. 

A lot of the nobles in Denerim had indeed been furious when they learned of Cailan's previous plans to, as he put it, _make peace with our neighbours_. No advisors, no politically-minded queen in all Thedas could compensate for Cailan's underestimation of how much his countrymen had lost during the rebellion. 

Like his father, Cailan had wanted to forget the war. Loghain had been the one who reminded them over and over again. 

“So when did you know the King was going to die?” Her question is as simple as any other question she poses, straight-forward and unashamed. Her voice is firm. 

Loghain looks into the flames. “When we left Denerim to partake in a fool's battle.”

When she doesn't respond, he continues. “I did not know _how_ he would die or that my actions would lead to it until we reached Ostagar, however.” 

Elissa leans forward, rubbing her dog's belly and watching Loghain carefully. She knows enough of the noble games in all their ignoble glory not to be particularly appalled, he realises. 

“So you set a trap?” she asks, then, and her face takes on a different shade in the flickering light from the fire. 

“I never had to,” he admits. “Cailan's sense for tactics was... no more advanced than a little boy's.”

Loghain had just watched. And waited. And asked the boy to see _reason_ , so many times his voice turned ragged and hoarse. To no use. There is a line beyond which no reason can be seen, he knows this now. He has crossed it himself, recently. 

Her gaze turns back to the fire and the Mabari, content between them, his paws scraping against Loghain's legs as he dreams. Elissa frowns, pondering something. A quiet little tug in his chest, persistent and unfamiliar, urges him to not leave it like this, to offer her something more. He wants, he realises somewhat horrified at the notion, to _explain_ himself to her and wonders when she became Mother Elissa, his nightly confessor. 

“I left my men to die at West Hill,” he says, before he has had time to consider where this confession comes from or why it has found its way out. “We had been betrayed-”

“I know. I remember my history tutoring.” She sits up, leans back on her hands and watches him. “Father only ever spoke of that day once.”

“It was a slaughter.” Loghain pauses. The dog's snoring wraps itself around their conversation in a strange and almost domestic way. “We lost so much that day. Once we learned what would happen, it was too late to back down, or so I decided at the time. It was necessary to leave them. For Maric's sake.”

If he allows himself the idiocy of dwelling on his past, Loghain can still remember the eyes of the man he left in charge as he rode off. The breakable surface of bravery in them, his own icy voice, and the _endless_ ride to Maric. 

There and then, with Rowan darting beside him and the horses frothing at the mouth before they had found their way, he had decided that Maric damn well had to be worth it – worth his father, his friends, his freedom, his bloody _soul_ – or Loghain would kill him with his own hands. 

“You had to save him,” Elissa responds softly. “He was the reason for the rebellion.”

“So without him there would be no Ferelden to defend, you mean?” Loghain lowers his voice. “No occupation? No justice to be served? Is one man ever so important that his life can be worth more than the lives of an entire army? Maric certainly didn't believe it.”

She says nothing. He is quiet for a while as well, searching for a way to continue. He is still unused to _talking_ even after all these years leading a life where all they ever did was talk, hiding their actions behind letters and commands. 

“Maric was devastated to learn what we had done.” Loghain shifts position on the ground, stretching his legs to realise they ache dully. Like he's been wound too tight all day. “He... made me swear that I would never do something like that again. He couldn't bear the thought of people dying for him. I promised him after that battle that I would never put his life above others or ride to his rescue.” 

His companion tilts her head to the side, still watching him. 

“That's a noble thing to ask a commander,” she says. 

“He was a noble man.” 

Of course, he had come for Maric countless of times after that promise, but never again under the same desperate circumstances, never again risking as much. And Maric had overlooked it, even as Loghain stormed Lake Calenhad and the Circle tower they had kept at their pretence. It was necessary, for both of them. 

They have spoken for so long the fire is dying. He makes an effort to rise and get more wood, but Elissa anticipates him; she heads off quickly and without waking her pet, which has to be considered extremely skilled, considering. Loghain reaches out to stroke the thick fur, and the dog stirs against him. 

And then she returns, and she is carrying more than wood. Maker's _mercy_ , she is standing in front of him, lit by the fading fire and looking every bit as the paintings of Andraste, wielding her sacred swords. Holding out her hands before him and kneeling down slightly. 

“Here.” 

He makes no move, no effort to accept her gift. 

“It's yours now.” Elissa gently places the blade in his lap. 

Loghain cannot speak. She seems to understand that, because she looks away, walking up to her tent again to gather a couple of things from her food pack, leaving him alone. 

The sword in his hands glimmer faintly in the dark, dangerously close to the past he doesn't live in, the path back to where it all began and like Ostagar, it offers no prospect of alteration. 

But the Maric he sees in the faint blue flames is unmarked by age and the cruelty of ruling, his smile full of admiration and that remarkable sense of humour that found its way through all misery; a Maric who could look at people and see something good in them – in _Loghain_ – that nobody else saw, and make them follow him to death because of it. 

The Maric that still lives, somewhere. 

The Maric that Loghain - if he has had too much ale and _allows_ himself - misses until it hurts to breathe. 

As the sun comes up, he still watches the sword in his hand, holding it up to measure its weight and capacity, weighing it against his old one. 

And unlike the two kings Loghain has served, he is not a man who throws himself at swords when life is unbearable. 

He wields them.


	7. The universe is still

The dreams get worse as they approach Redcliffe. 

And it's tiresome and unfamiliar as Elissa is largely unaccustomed to nightmares; she has always been a heavy sleeper, resting soundly even in the worst of weathers and she has never been able to recall anything from her time in the distant realms. This past year that, too, has changed. Like a stream of lava, the blood in her is boiling and _burning_ , upsetting all thoughts and blurring the lines until she opens her eyes in the heart of the Fade and can't get _out_ , clawing her way up through sheer willpower. 

Her bedroll is damp with sweat as she wakes, jerky and unsteady, sitting up to gasp for air. 

And always, _incessantly_ , that lingering memory of _speech_ that she ought to recall, sentences that made sense to her – if only for a second and in a dream – because they were sentences that would be significant, could she form the words. 

“You look worse for wear,” Zevran says, an odd trace of concern creeping beneath his usual, lecherous drawl and he's _right_ , she catches her own reflection in lakes and blades and almost startles every time. 

Some nights or early mornings, she meets Loghain out there on the other side of sleep, wearing the same expression. They don't talk, merely acknowledge each other's presence as those moments are always balancing on the edge of what you can admit to someone else, the terror already transgressing all lines.

Then she wakes one morning when Leliana shakes her and the dream doesn't end. 

The pulse of her nights – her usual dreams of darkspawn and demons talking, marching, approaching step by step – that fades into the daylight, but now the images behind her eyelids and inside her body remain despite the sun on her face and Leliana's voice in her ears; Elissa sees the hordes in her head even when the slowly moving forest is before her. Even her mouth is full of this other dimension, her tongue thick and useless. She crawls to her feet. 

Leliana catches her before she has time to escape outside the tent. “What is wrong?”

“Elissa?” Leliana insists, the grip of her hands around Elissa's wrists refusing to relent with less then a harsh shove, and then her face looks terribly concerned and a little hurt. _“Elissa.”_

Elissa shakes her head, her throat aching, and the voice emerging from it isn't hers, isn't even human. “I can't... shut it _out_.”

She presses her palms to her temples, as though it's poison inside that can be driven away, but of course there isn't, so she squirms and shies away from Leliana's touches and worried gazes and then she runs, blindly. 

Breathing fire and death, she runs. 

They have set up camp in the middle of a small forest and she runs through it, as far away as she can get in her tunic and trousers, wearing boots that are much too big for her without her thick wool socks. It's cold and damp and she _runs_ , until she can't fill her lungs with air and has to sink down on all four on the ground. _Maker's breath,_ but they talk to her. All at once in a tongue she cannot possible understand they talk, and their words are blurred words of victory. Of rebirth. 

They are coming. 

When she closes her eyes she sees the dragon in her blood and she sees, too, Riordan and Alistair and Loghain, crouching like her, their faces distorted. And then the Archdemon rises to the earth, leaving its nest in the Dead Trenches; with a terrible scream it rises, smashing through the surface like a caged animal breaking free. It rises like a long exhale, a liberated roar as the torment releases her body. 

A jolt of recognition sweeps through the forest, Elissa realises, finding a fixed spot to hold on to.

She's not alone. 

With her eyes still shut and her forehead pressed against a tree, she grabs hold of the shape she can feel but doesn't see and as soon as Loghain's hand has found hers, the noise _shifts_. As though it has been waiting for this, the chaos folds inside her, rolling back like a wave retreating into the ocean. Somewhere in her mind, she can see other Wardens all over Thedas, standing together, holding on to each other, sharing the vision. She looks up, finally. 

She's not _alone_. 

Loghain lets out a muffled noise; Elissa clutches his hand even harder and can't say if she wishes to heave out her pain over him or release him of his own. Or if there is a difference. He is harsh knuckles and rough fingers interlaced with her own, an odd sort of comfort. And it _ends_. The dream finally ends. 

“I-” she begins, breaking free and darting a few metres away to empty her stomach in a dewy bush. She doesn't move. Even as the sour taste has left her, she remains. Breathing. In and out, steady flow, returning to normal. “Maker's breath, that was _awful._ ”

“Here,” Loghain says, handing her a rag. His voice sounds uncharacteristically unsteady. 

Elissa wipes her mouth, grimacing. 

“Did you feel that, too?” she asks once her voice is entirely her own again. “I mean, well... you _did._ Obviously. Stupid question.” 

“I did,” he confirms curtly. 

She moves with considerable effort to sit down among a few trees she hopes are unsoiled by her little accident. And if they aren't, she can't be bothered to care. Her head might be barren of darkspawn, but it still aches like she has been bashed with a shield. Loghain watches her, he is still standing up and his hands are occupied with a branch from a tree. She notices they shake. 

“I saw you... and Riordan. In my head,” she says. 

Loghain frowns. “This happens a lot to Grey Wardens, then? That kind of shared visions? It seems inconvenient.”

“I... don't know.”

“The creed of the Order.” He sneers.

“Yes.” Elissa rakes a hand through her hair, still damp and messy from the nightly terrors. She ought to smell stale and disgusting. “Join us in the shadows where we don't know.”

Loghain gives a short laughter – he _laughs_ – and it's such a strange and wondrous thing to hear that she laughs too, despite and because of it all. The sound of it has a calming effect, her stomach settles. When he sits down beside her, she realises that it, whatever _it_ is, is about more than sharing dirty blood and desperate dreams. It is rawer and less physical than that. Inexplicably as it may be, even to herself, Elissa is glad that he's _there_. With her. She looks at the discarded rag between her feet, placing her boots over it. 

As he has a habit of doing, Loghain waits for her to break the silence that has fallen. 

“I suppose the Archdemon has risen then,” she says, eventually. 

Loghain nods. “I suppose it has.”

And he does not treat her like she is afraid because she can't _be_ afraid. While the world wakes up around them and their companions prepare the day's journey, he sits with her and she sits with him and all traces of night are swept away by the sounds of morning.

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A mere few days’ journey from Redcliffe they meet a battered unit of surface dwarves, commoners and - of all things - a templar, presenting himself as Ser Lyndon. They travel with the packing of a much larger group, suggesting either bandits or a troop having suffered great losses; Elissa keeps one hand on her sword while approaching the strangers. When the templar's gaze reaches Loghain’s face, he almost startles. 

“You… Teyrn Mac Tir!” Ser Lyndon says, holding up his hand to order his men to halt. “My lord! Are you…we were told- they say you died-”

“People talk a lot,” Loghain cuts him off.

“We are Grey Wardens,” Elissa replies, not as harshly, but weary of the possibilities for a travelling band of brothers in wartimes. Regardless of their leaders. “Where are you headed?”

“We were going to join the Queen's army at Redcliffe castle, my lady. Just like you.” He straightens his back and looks directly at her. “Might we be so forward as to suggest we accompany you, offering our service?” 

Loghain suddenly flanks Elissa, arms folded and his face wearing as much scepticism as his voice. “This woman is the General of Ferelden's army, appointed by the Queen. What assistance can you offer her? You don't look like soldiers.”

“We are not, my lord,” one of the footsoldiers beside Ser Lyndon says. He's a short, stocky man who seems to walk with great effort. “I hail from a small village near Southron Hills. It was destroyed by darkspawn so we left. All of us who could.”

She takes in the crowd. They are all bloodied and bruised but _proud_ , in a way that touches her. They have escaped. Survived. And now they're off to die. Loghain glances at her. 

“We’ll set up camp here for the night and discuss our plans in the morning,” Elissa gestures towards a field that ought to have room for all of their tents. “You look like you need rest and some healing. If there's anything else, come see me.” 

“Yes, my lady.”

“Warden,” she corrects. 

“Yes, Warden.”

While the others pitch up their tents and unload their packing on the ground, slowly creating a small village around them, Elissa rolls out her well-thumbed map. Battered and worn, it has been among her belongings since leaving Highever and longer still. She loves maps. As a young girl dreaming of flight she would scribble paths to freedom on the back of every book her parents would let her have, to remind herself of everything that was outside the castle. For her tenth birthday, her father gave her this one, decorated with a bow. 

Today this map speaks very little of flight. 

“They can't travel with us,” she mutters, chest heavy and oddly tight. “They are not fit to fight, I doubt they even were to begin with. We need to move fast. There's no point in sending them to join the army, they'll die midway.”

Loghain is beside her, crouching down to look at her border lines and oceans, as though they held any answers. 

“If you don't want them to fight, you could order them back to Gwaren,” he suggests. “Should they survive the journey they can send word to Denerim. It would give us information of the situation, if nothing else.”

She ponders his suggestion for a moment, not taking her eyes off the scroll. “It does seem like the darkspawn have left the south.”

“It does,” Loghain says. “It could mean the Blight will have to be fought in all major cities in the North.” 

“But it can only be ended where the Archdemon shows itself. Which is as likely to happen in Gwaren as in the Frostback Mountains or anywhere else.” They have impossible choices ahead, no way of predicting their progress and little to gain either way. Rubbing her forehead, she sighs heavily, already knowing what her decision will be. “Whatever my decision, I'll tell them tomorrow.”

.  
.  
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Despite it all, the strangers bring a certain kind of calm to their group. A change, however brief. 

Elissa realises the urgent need for it as she watches them all from a distance. 

She is empty tonight – _emptied_ \- her body immobile in the ever-changing turmoil around them; the only flutter is that motion in her bones, the rhythm of the unavoidable and even this is a thing of tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight they rest. 

In various ways. 

The suddenly large camp is vibrating with voices and laughter, with smells and sights and conversations blossoming in every corner. Wynne and Oghren have thrown themselves into a game of cards – accompanied by a game of drinking large amounts of ale – opposite a couple of commoners who seem delighted to learn of Wynne's talent for games as well as for drinking, judging by their roared compliments. Shale stands guard, quiet for once, possibly _enjoying_ herself, although it's difficult to say for certain. 

Perched on the stump of a large oak, Leliana entertains a wide-eyed Ser Lyndon and a quietly amused Zevran who hands out servings from a bottle of something that looks dwarven-made. Loghain and Morrigan stands a few steps outside the invisible borders of fellowship, her gaze lingering on him and his arms folded over his chest, in an apparent gesture of indifference. 

Elissa hides a smile as she walks away - scenting food - seeing Sten and Dog in the corner of her eye. They are both giving the tumult a wide berth by heading towards the edge of the forest. To hunt, she assumes. Dog likes to hunt with humans. 

The trees offer a slice of solitude for a short while, as does the smoked fish and dried meat she has managed to find. She slumps down on the ground, stretching her legs in front of her and leaning back on her hands. Her back feels tight, _taut._ But at least the plate beside her offers some nice smells. She drags her fingertips over the fish, gathering salt, before placing them in her mouth. 

“Am I disturbing a... private moment?” 

Morrigan's low, dry tone lingers in the quiet night. She doesn't wait for a reply, walking closer until she's standing in front of Elissa. 

“I scavenged goods from the templar's pack,” Elissa says, holding out her plate. “Hungry?”

“Stealing from the helpless chantry men, now?” Morrigan shakes her head, holding up both hands in denial. “Oh, my. There is no limit to your appetite?”

“Not that I have noticed.” She sorts through the assorted delicacies, if one can refer to them as such. One can, she decides, tasting a sad-looking piece of fruit that has a flavour of Highever and childhood treats. As a girl, Elissa would run into the kitchen and steal bowls of sugar, sneaking out with it under her hopeless dresses and run _fast-fast-fast_ outside before nan had grabbed at her with dirty kitchen-hands and Fergus would wait around a corner, holding stalks of rhubarb; and then the two of them, alone in the world up on the stable roof, blending sweet and sour in the mouths, dreaming of dragons. “Its a... Grey Warden problem.”

“Yes, so I have heard.” Her lips crook as she looks at Elissa who picks up another slice of bread. “Unlimited appetites for most things, should one believe in the stories told.” 

“And wouldn't _you_ like to know if there is truth in that?” With someone else, someone like _Leliana_ , such a remark would flare up into something complicated. With Morrigan it is only as literal as she makes it. 

“Of course I would.” Her bare shoulders look pale in the shadows, her entire body relaxing against the bark, fingers tapping her staff absent-mindedly. “But you _insist_ on recruiting unwilling candidates for my studying of the matter.”

“Well, I haven't recruited anyone since Loghain.”

“No.” Morrigan smiles, wickedly. “And he is _most_ unwilling. Even Alistair was never that ignorant of my charms.”

“Oh – I...they must use _magic_ to keep the this so fresh,” Elissa says, wilfully ignoring the last remark, scooping up a bit of stew with the bread. “Could it be possible?”

“I doubt that. 'Tis a _templar._ ” Morrigan sounds disdainful. But disdainful is better than discussing Grey Warden intimacy, because _that_ is a matter entirely too private, even for Elissa Cousland. And she does most definitely not desire the image of Morrigan and Loghain _entangled_ branded into her inner vision. The Archdemon rising is enough of a vision for this year, surely. 

“Oh. Well, it tastes good anyway.”

“I would like to say something.” The conversation takes a different turn again, as always with Morrigan. 

“Say it,” Elissa looks up, frowning at the expression in the other woman's face. She's bewildered and irritated in equal amounts, by the look of it. 

“I... well,” Morrigan leans forward. “'Tis a curious thing. You. You are curious. And... _this_ , I suppose.” 

“This?”

“To think of you as a friend. A sister, even.”

“Ah.”

They have, over the course of the past year, developed a habit of seeking each other's company. It's a wordless companionship, occasionally imbued with sarcasm as a way of enduring the tasks at hand, occasionally entirely quiet as they sit side by side in the outskirts of the group, pondering different things. Even so, Elissa has never been able to say whether or not she trusts Morrigan. Or if Morrigan trusts _her._ It has never been necessary to find out. It's a bond of other qualities, what loyalty they share going beyond common goals or not far enough. 

Morrigan would never die for their cause. And that, Elissa realises, means she will never have to die for Morrigan. Morrigan who marched into Fort Drakon and killed all guards in order to liberate the Wardens, who fights like an enraged Fade demon and protected them against the undead spirits of the Brecilian Forest. Morrigan who is brilliant and useful and possibly the strongest person Elissa has ever met, yet wears her emotions with no ease at all and stumbles helplessly on words like _friends_ or _thank you._

It is unlike any other bond tied in the past year, yet oddly similar. 

Elissa can't remember ties of friendship as distinct as those wrapping themselves around her now; so many months on the road and you bind yourself to others, ropes as natural as bones and blood. Brothers-and-sisters-in-arms. 

A long time ago she wrapped a remnant from her mother's latest visit from the dressmaker around Hestia's small wrist, proclaiming it a bond of everlasting affection. The golden silk against the sun-scented skin, strong fingers interlaced with her own and sometimes, when nobody was looking, a practised kiss or two in the servant's quarters. But Hestia grew up fast. Grew too old for girl-touching and swords, moulding her body into corsets and wedding dressed before Elissa had enough time to adjust, before her own body had even drawn its first breath in that new, painfully awkward shape. With a kiss goodbye, Hestia was married to a bann of South Reach and Elissa was still in Highever. 

Without the northern skies and the ocean-air, she finds it is not any easier to make new friends. If anything, it is more complicated, increasingly _vulnerable_ the older she gets. 

“Is that why you are still here?” she asks, understanding immediately it was the wrong question. Morrigans face turns a shade of dark, her mouth pressed tight over the reply. “For friendship? Or for the sake of the Grey Wardens?”

“What is that supposed to mean? Why do you ask me such questions?” She glares at Elissa. “Do you not remember Flemeth asking me to come with you to help you stop the Blight?”

“I... I do. I'm... I don't know. Never mind.” 

They look at each other for a while; Morrigan seems troubled, picking at the seam of her top and clearing her throat. 

“I _meant_ to say that even if I might not prove it in the days to come, I _am_ your friend.” She makes a move as if to walk away, yet the look in her eyes reveals another Morrigan who is reluctant to do so.”And I shall always consider you such.” 

Elissa reaches out a hand to place it on Morrigan's arm, but pauses mid-air, regretting the impulse. Instead she smiles to hide the embarrassment. 

“Thank you.” She stifles an urge to look away. “I... you too. I mean, I feel that, too.” 

“Well... yes. Good.”

After Morrigan leaves, Elissa stands in the fringe of the wood, head tilted to a night-sky filled with stars, thinking it's a strange war that can pass through the whole of a country and not leave marks in the air. It seems it ought to be as tainted as the earth, dragged in the same kind of dirt.

But it isn't. It's a clear night. 

The camp has settled as she returns to it. Most people have disappeared and she is certain she can discern Oghren's special kind of snoring from one of the tents near the fire. Loghain is returning from the lake, carrying a pack and a discarded shirt over his shoulder. Elissa nods as a greeting and he nods, as well. 

“Here,” Wynne says, suddenly, a tinge of intoxicated serenity behind her eyes. She holds out two small stoups, one for Elissa and one – amazingly - for Loghain.

“Wine?” Elissa asks. 

“No, I'm afraid we have no wine _left_.” Wynne smiles. “This is just my own brew of tea, spiced with that sleeping draught you are so fond of, child. As are you, Loghain, I have come to understand. So now you drink. It's my order for the evening.”

Loghain looks torn between amusement and surprise, but settles for the former. He takes one of the stoups and raises it somewhat in a toast. 

“As you say, madam.”

Elissa follows suit, nodding towards them both before downing the draught. Loghain gives her a wry half-smile before they part, released from their usual watch duty by Ser Lyndon and one of the surfacers. It feels peculiar, getting a full night's sleep. But it's a strange day altogether. 

“Goodnight,” Loghain says. Elissa walks past him to her tent, looking back to see Wynne cleaning the stoups next to the fireplace and Loghain closing the opening of his tent. 

“Sweet dreams,” she mumbles.

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

The following morning, everything falls back into the pattern of their previous days, leaving last night as a footnote in their memories. Last night they rested. Today the Blight continues. 

Elissa feels testy as she finishes her morning meal beside Zevran who is distracting her by rubbing oil into his hair. The scents of spices and flowers disrupts the taste in her mouth, until she's convinced she's chewing on roses and puts her bowl down. 

And then Ser Lyndon eyes her expectantly, waiting for her answer to his question. 

In their readiness to sacrifice themselves, their brave acceptance of the situation, lies a dark promise, forcing itself down into her body. Elissa braces herself. 

Loghain, packing his belongings, looks up at her as she approaches. 

“They will go back to Gwaren,” she says. “I have no use for them.”

“That sounds fair.” He stuffs a pair of leather trousers on top of his bedroll, groaning irritably as the pack is still too small to close around his things. 

“Yes,” she snorts. “Fair is _exactly_ what it is.”

“I will tell them, if you cannot.” And he sounds – of all things – _sincere_ , which almost puts her off guard completely with its tempting possibility of escape. He's testing her. 

She's a general and a commander of men and this, she reminds herself, is a war. 

“What are you, my servant?” Elissa sweeps past him. “The decision was mine.”

The resolve lasts for as long as she needs it, she finds. And Ser Lyndon bows before her, accepting her orders and trying his best to make them sound important. 

“As you say, Warden.” He looks up at her, smiling faintly. 

“Thank you, good ser. We value the aid.”

They are two leaders doing their best in a situation offering no hope and Elissa leans down to kiss his forehead, like a pardoning judge before the accused. 

“Maker watch over you,” she says. 

“Maker watch over us all, Warden,” the templar replies, expertly. 

Either way, she knows, they will die. As casualties of war, people she could not afford to save. People who, despite being living, breathing creatures with souls, are too weak to _use_. 

Yes, she thinks, returning to her small army, she is a good warlord. 

“Maker _forgive_ me,” she says later, in a voice so low only Loghain can hear her. 

He places a hand on her shoulder. They stand close enough for it to be a small move, insignificant in its casual way, but the warmth of it leaves her slightly stunned. For no longer than a second she leans against him, feeling the strength of his arms in her own and the heat of his body against her skin. Then she turns to her companions. 

“If we keep a steady pace we can be in Redcliffe tomorrow evening.” This she shouts loud enough for everyone else to hear. “Let's _move_!”


	8. A small price to pay

_I cannot fly, but, bear-like, I must fight the course_  
( **Macbeth** , Act V)

* * *

Night has fallen before they reach the village.

Last time Loghain visited Redcliffe, it was winter and the castle was crowded and he was being subjected to the intricate form of torture that came in the shape of Lady Isolde's singing. One evening filled with Orlesian bloody chants giving praise to the Maker's creation and, as the intake of wine increased, a couple of _chansons_. And Eamon had been so proud of his war trophy it was sickening. 

This time it's late summer and Eamon's much-adored wife is dead. The Warden's doing, if he understands her reluctant confession correctly. 

It surprises him, although by now nothing _ought_ to. 

It's still odd, walking side by side. 

The two of them have attacked and defended the land from opposite directions all these months, hurtling considerable amounts of damage and leaving very little victory behind. Loghain least of all. 

There is no way to rectify the mistakes made. This is a fact hammered into his bones with every step he takes, with everything they do: there is no release from the past. 

And tonight Redcliffe village seems to embody the destruction they have made. The stench of smoke and blood blending with the filthy, rotten scent rising from the darkspawn that greet them. It's the sort of stench that, he has learned over the past few weeks, is inseparable from himself now. 

“We drive them out of the village before we go to the castle!” The Warden stands in the hillside slope, raising her sword as she commands them. 

She is a vision of other battles, possibly every battle he has ever led and won. The Age of Dragons. It begun with them, with King Maric and his golden heroes, and it feels so long ago the very meaning has been torn up and replaced, the traces leading back to its roots long gone. 

Or perhaps it is about to begin again. 

“Understood,” Loghain replies, thinking he at least recognised his better. At the eleventh hour. Small and twisted as that comfort may be, it's still a _comfort_ and he keeps it in mind as they rush down the hill.

Loghain doesn't know for how long they fight. There are darkspawn rushing at them from every direction, a couple of ogres waiting by the lake and groups of hurlocks attacking. Afterwards he doesn't remember if he is being dragged out from underneath a collapsing emissary or if he is the one who pulls the assassin away from a hurlock axe, thrown up into the air, landing with the blade down. He only knows that he fights until he coughs blood and they slay the last beast in front of the castle entrance.

There's a little moment before they walk inside, a moment where the Warden looks at them all, without saying anything. There are no word left to say. 

They are nearing the end. 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

Redcliffe castle looks like he remembers it; it's even as thickly populated and vociferous as the memories he has of it. There are small units of allies gathering on the first floor – a legion of dwarves, several units of knights, some mages and even a Dalish emissary – where their group is greeted by Eamon and Anora. Loghain catches Anora's glance in his direction and nods back at her. The little boy who is her new king doesn't show himself but Eamon stands there, arms folded, and Loghain supposes it's the same thing. 

Anora offers smiles and handshakes, lingering a while in front of Loghain, before stepping aside to allow Eamon to be the one who greets his guests. 

“Wardens, welcome! We are relieved to see you both.”

“We are glad to see you, as well,” Elissa says, nodding politely. There's a touch of coldness in her tone that seems as intentional as Eamon's way of extending his gaze to all of them, not speaking directly to the her. Loghain feels a faint triumph. Nobody who attended the Landsmeet walked away without understanding that the man had hoped Lady Cousland would take the throne with his puppet – and no one is happier than Loghain to see that plan shattered. 

These blasted games. Certain things don't change, no matter how many wars they have to face. The Orlesians should have taken the nobility with them as they left, Loghain had said to Maric, countless of times during their first years in power. And Maric, for all his lenience, had never disagreed with that. 

Loghain wonders, briefly, if Eamon doesn't feel _old_. Old and tired and set on defending ideals that are already dead, that belong to a different generation; it might be the change of pace lately, or the past wretched year, but he is wholeheartedly and utterly relieved to have stepped away from it. 

All good generals know when to retreat. 

Then the Orlesian steps forward, wearing the pompous air Loghain recalls from his Joining. 

“Yes, it is good to see you,” he says, “you as well, Loghain.”

Not even the Blight can make the last part of that sentence sound sincere. 

“Our most pressing concern at the moment,” he continues, “is the fact that the Archdemon has shown itself. It seems to be headed towards Denerim.” 

“Denerim?” 

“Yes, unfortunately.” Eamon looks at Loghain, then at Elissa. “I can tell my men to be ready in the morning, but we will not reach the city in at least two days.”

“Hopefully the horde won't either,” the Orlesian adds. 

Loghain tries to shake the sense of dread out of his body by shifting position. 

“Who's in charge of Denerim's defence at present?”

“I ordered Ser Cauthrien to remain there with her troops.” Anora looks at him. “Knight-Commander Tavish and his men were sent to Dragon's Peak. Ser Cauthrien didn't want to split her forces ”

“Good.” he nods. “If anyone can hold the city until we get there, it's Cauthrien.”

“I know,” she replies, quickly. “She was given permission to call for reinforcements as she saw fit.”

“Good,” he says again. There is not much else to add, he finds. 

And there is little else to _do_ but wait for dawn. 

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

Maric once told him Redcliffe castle was a joyless place. When Loghain first visited it, he understood why. It hasn't changed in the slightest. There is something massive about the setting, leaving no room for anything but the mountains and the queasy air of fish and lake water, a suffocating sense of being at the end of the world. No roads seem to be leading here and no roads lead out. 

Redcliffe castle is a place of what once was. 

When he stands outside his bedchamber, he thinks the ghosts are almost visible between the weapon stands and coat of arms; no more than hints and traces but he can discern their faces in the dull stone around him. As he blinks, they disappear again, leaving only the usual cavities, all the rooms of unfeigned loss. 

Anora finds him before he has found his way to the promised warm meal downstairs. She walks quickly through the hallway, her dress billowing around her. 

“Oh, _father_ ,” she says, shedding a layer of regal posture with each step. 

“Anora.” He offers an attempt of a smile. 

“We had nearly lost hope of seeing you.” She sighs, hands on hips and a glint of concern in her eyes. “Riordan told me he could... sense you. Both he and Alistair felt the Archdemon rise.” 

“Yes.” Loghain sighs. “I became aware of that, too.”

Anora seems calm, considering. Her country is facing a war taken from a fairy tale, its fate depending on a handful of warriors most Fereldans have little reason to trust and she will urge them to stand by her, all the same. Loghain remembers Maric's faltering confidence, remembers furious conversations and resignation as he eventually bowed to his own bloodline. In his daughter he spots nothing but duty and willingness. 

He is proud of her. 

“You're different.” She waits for two elven servants to pass by, heads bowed while excusing themselves for being in the way, before she crosses the floor. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Am I now?”

“Yes.”

Anora stands close, resting one hand on his upper arm while scrutinizing him. For the first years of their marriage, Cecil would always examine him in a similar way when he returned to Gwaren. She'd place her hands on his chest and take a step back, eyes travelling up and down his body; there was usually _something_ causing concern – generally because he looked tired or too thin or merely troubled - and he would disregard it, shrug and move on, but the _fervour_ she poured into this procedure tugged at his heart even if he rarely showed it. 

“And you've changed your _sword._ ” She peers over his shoulder, takes a few steps closer to examine the blade. “What sort of runes make a weapon shine like that?”

“It's Maric's sword.”

“Maric's?” 

Her surprise mirrors his own when he thinks about the fact that he is in possession of it at all. 

“It's a long story, Anora. One for another day.”

“Of course.” She looks up at him. Cecil had the same way of doing that, of melting down all of her considerable strength into a gaze that expressed nothing but forlornness; she'd punish him with that gaze when he returned or rode off, while admitting in no words that he ought to remain in Gwaren. “Another day.”

There's a rattling noise coming from downstairs. A hum of voices, scattered curses and what sounds like his fellow Warden's irritable command, telling them to stop making a bloody mess. He nearly smiles to himself. 

“Do you miss being in charge?” 

Anora eyes him, a little crease appearing between her eyebrows. 

Once the safety and comfort of sharing a clearly defined goal had vanished, the nature of the troops changed. He had been unprepared for that, at first. As had Maric, both of them being too young and naive to understand the language, the rape-and-pillage reality of the army that fell under Loghain's responsibilities after the throne was in the right hands. 

Soldiers are, at best, mindless brutes; knights are worse, half of them believe themselves above orders, the other half fooling themselves to think _they_ issue the commands. For the commoners it is all about silver coins and plunder. For the nobility war is about power, that illusive dream of holding the voice of the whole of Landsmeet in their fat, greedy hands. 

“No, I don't,” Loghain replies. And he means it, more than he has realised before. 

She smiles at that. “You _are_ different.”

There's a hope creeping into her voice, impossible to ignore, a small but persistent promise of nothing but further disappointment. Anora sees - and sometimes tries to reach for - a man that he never was, never had the chance to be and consequently has buried forever. In that aspect, she is eerily similar to her mother. And he is bound to let her down in the same way. 

“So tell me, will the new king throw himself at the darkspawn swords like Cailan?” he asks instead, his voice hard. 

“Well, he is raised to fight,” Anora says. 

“He is also a newly appointed monarch in a country that is still on the brink of civil war.” 

Loghain thinks of the impossibility of reasoning with both Maric and Cailan, their stubborn refusal to listen to any form of reason in the matter. All kings fight, Maric had told him once, before he allowed himself to be kidnapped by Orlesian Wardens; Loghain had wasted untold resources and lives on bringing him back to Denerim again, yet the King of Ferelden simply disavowed to learn any lessons from this. The frustration is still tangible in Loghain's body. He cuts off his own thoughts by turning his gaze to his daughter. 

“I am _aware_ of this,” she retorts, her voice darkening momentarily, before she gathers her composure again.

“Not that I care one way or the other about this Warden consort of yours, but the Landsmeet deemed him fit to rule. They will want him alive. What about Eamon, can't he order caution?”

“Hardly.” Anora folds her arm over her chest. “Eamon somehow considers this my doing. I suppose he thinks I enjoy burying Maric's sons. But that is no matter.” 

“No, indeed,” Loghain mutters. “I would not dwell on it. Eamon is a peevish bastard who lives to exert his power over those too weak to have minds of their own and brood over all the slights he's suffered.” 

Anora laughs, darkly. “That sounds more like _you_ , father.” 

Loghain sneers, but doesn't say anything. 

“So. What do you think of our chances?” she looks down, her hands tugging at the sleeves of the dress, her entire nature so much younger all of a sudden. “Speak as a general, not as a father.”

“It's a difficult battle,” he admits. “And if the Orlesian is right about the bulk of the horde, we will be outnumbered immediately. To stand any chance we must rely on surprise, fate and sheer luck. And on the Warden who just threatened to behead someone downstairs.”

“Ah, yes.” Anora looks up, the worry in her face somewhat softened. “She is... quite extraordinary, isn't she?” 

“She is a very capable leader,” he says. 

“So you think she might... oh, I don't know, overcome the odds?” 

“Oddly enough, I do.” 

Oddly enough, he _does_. If only for a brief moment, if only for _this_ brief moment, he believes in something. And it's the Grey Warden of Highever, of all things. 

Then, after making certain she is unobserved, The Queen of Ferelden rests her forehead against Loghain's chest. He strokes her hair. When she shows no intention of moving away, he puts his arms around her, holding her; her arms find their way around his waist and they stand there, without saying anything. 

As quickly and wordlessly as she sought him out, she's squaring up to return to her duties, smoothing out the invisible creases in her dress and clearing her throat. He watches her until she has disappeared around a corner; the small frame of her shoulders barely revealing a glimpse of the power everyone knows is there. It's a strange thing raising children. You teach them to grow up, find their way, find themselves. Yet Anora, remarkable and self-sufficient, is still irrevocably his, perhaps even more so as a grown woman than she ever was as a little girl.

And when there's nothing else left in this damned world to hold his conviction, he will still fight for _her_. 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

The tray that was sent up to his room comes with an overwhelming scent of clove. 

Clove and something disturbingly sweet – intertwined with Redcliffe's token fish smell. Fish stew, he supposes, without looking closer. Still feeling the wounds from today's battle, as well as the recent lack of sleep, he isn't hungry enough to care. 

The Orlesian told them to get as much rest as possible, which seems like an enticing prospect even if Loghain has no illusion of being able to fulfil it with anything less than a draught from the mage, and she is nowhere in sight. 

He wishes the chamber had windows, as the spices wring themselves around his head, making him feel a pang of nausea and he's on his way to call for a servant in the corridor when the Warden appears in the doorway. 

“Did you want something?” he asks, irritably. 

She walks in, as usual leaving any gentility manners aside. It's a striking difference between her and Anora, he realises. Anora threads through a room like a political being, aware of all possible allies and enemies that could observe her. The Warden enters a room like she is the only important person in it. 

“I wanted to hear your opinion,” she says, sitting down on his bed. He remains by the door, watching her. “About what Riordan had to say.”

“That one life can end the Blight?” Loghain shrugs. “One life. Seems a small price to pay, doesn't it?”

“I would agree.” She spreads her hands in her lap; her face closed-off in thoughts for a moment. “Were it not for the fact that there are precisely two Fereldan Wardens.” 

“At present, yes.” He fails to see how a worry about the future can be on her mind now, with the nearly impossible battle ahead. A worry that they cannot mitigate here, tonight. “It will change quickly once the war is over.”

“Remind me to find strength in numbers.” She looks at him. “When we rebuild the Order.”

He doesn't even have a response to that, not at first. Elissa sighs and remains silent and he wonders when exactly he stopped thinking of _after._

“If Riordan fails-” he begins, eventually but is cut off. 

“Loghain-”

“If Riordan _fails_ ,” he all but growls, intent on finishing his sentence. “It ought to be me.”

Elissa rises to her feet. Like him, she looks in need of sleep more than anything else. More than pointless strategy for a future that doesn't even exist, certainly. That doesn't exist for _both_ of them, unless the Orlesian stays true to his word. 

“Why?” she asks then, with unfeigned curiosity. 

He scoffs. “That _is_ why I'm here, isn't it?” 

Infuriatingly, she just frowns at that. “No, it's not. You are here because I needed your help. I _need_ your help.”

“And now I'm offering it,” he says. “You're young; you have a life. Don't be so eager to throw that away.”

She laughs, a strange, bitter laugh. “I won't throw my life away. I will be doing my duty.”

“And what is my duty then, pray tell?” 

“If we are splitting hairs, I'm your senior Warden. And if we are being _practical,_ Loghain, you know you are better suited to rebuild the Order. You're the best general Ferelden has seen; you have done this for longer than I have been alive.” 

Loghain considers what she is saying, not knowing what to make of it, her entire point seemingly buried in implications that go beyond what he has considered for himself and his future. 

“That's hardly-” 

“The Blight will end because the Archdemon dies, this is true.” The expression on her face wavers between a determination he is familiar with and a vulnerability he can't recall having seen before. “But that will not be the end of it, Loghain. You know that better than anyone. The rest of this war will be fought afterwards. Assuming we survive.”

“Which you will do.” This blasted night is running in circles, he thinks as she approaches the doorway again, her jaw clenched hard and her hands shaking as they come to rest on her belt and her hips. Loghain wonders if he ought to offer her some kind of consolation, but finds that he has none. She is frightened. Noting could be more reasonable, and she has always struck him as just that. He can't argue with fear on the eve of battle. “And there is no point in arguing about what might be.” 

“You don't understand. I'm not afraid of _dying_ ,” she says simply and he looks at her, thinking she _should_ be and wondering, too, if he ever was. “Dying is easy.”

And then she walks away, without looking back or letting him respond; Loghain rakes a hand through his hair, thinking sleep has never been further away.


	9. Farther down

  
_Down on your knees, Achilles. Farther down._  
Now forward on your hands and put your face into the dirt  
War Music - Christopher Logue  


She has always assumed she would be afraid of dying.

And she is, deep down she _is_ , just like she is still terrified of heights and long-legged spiders and of drowning in the Waking Sea of her childhood nightmares. Fergus taunting her – _the fat bird that could not fly_ \- for not daring to climb up the trees. Eventually, because she is a little sister and because she is stubborn as _sin_ , she does. All but sprouting wings she clambers one step at the time until she sits clumsy and uncomfortable on a branch, staring at the touch of sea beyond the hills. 

Somewhere, hugging the bark of that tree, she knows the fear – all fear, any fear – will subside and afterwards you cannot say where or how. But you want answers, so you keep posing the questions to yourself. 

Perhaps it was in Highever, cradling Oren's body in her arms for the briefest of moments; perhaps it was in Ostagar, waking up to a world that rested on her shoulders. Perhaps it has gradually shifted, over dragged-out marches and copper-tasting fights; perhaps she has outworn fear itself, her body protecting her against a constant tremor.

Compared to bloodying her hands with the deaths of others, shouldering the impossible decisions and drawing lines on the map that separates victory from defeat, _dying_ is a simple enough task. 

If Riordan's attempt fails, and even if it succeeds, bearing in mind that this is a battle, Elissa will die for them and it's not something she has chosen but there it is all the same. 

She is going to die for this half-hearted cause of hers if someone has to - _because_ someone has to. This is a fact. There is no need to play what-if or look at her reflection in the mirror wondering how her face will greet her twenty years from now, or if she will inherit her mother's silvery hair. 

Would she be granted a last wish by the powers she has begun to doubt, she would not plead for her life. Instead, she would beg for the ability to see what has not yet happened. To predict the unpredictable. 

She wishes there was a way to plan this ahead, to draw a map of the presumed battle and mark the position of her soldiers, carefully move them so they are encircle the Archdemon. Wishing, too, that it was even possible. But the maps lie untouched and useless in her room. 

When she walks through the corridor upstairs, on her way from Loghain's bedchamber to her own, she hesitates for a second outside Leliana's room. The door's ajar and she can scent her presence through bathing oils and incense inside. Leliana who has probably seized the opportunity to have a long thorough bath, because that is something the bard would do, even on the eve of battle. Elissa smiles a little at the thought. 

_Leliana._

And suddenly there's a sting of sadness at the idea of it all, at the thought of dying- 

No. 

She's so lost in her self-indulgent sentimentality as she enters her quarters that Morrigan's familiar shape in front of the fireplace startles her. 

“'Tis only I.”

There is something altered about that voice, Elissa knows. Something has slipped into it, or out of it, and she cannot tell what it is or why. It's the force of her - her core - that seems tinged with a presence of a coldness she is unused to hear. When they first crossed path it was as much part of Morrigan as the Chasind clothes but over time it has grown warmer, closer, _friendlier._

And as usual, friendship is too much to ask for, too little to hold on to. 

“You knew about this all along then, I presume,” Elissa says when Morrigan has explained her mission. Maker's breath, the _mission_. It reads like a whisper from a bad dream but there is no part of her that doesn't believe it is absolutely real. 

Morrigan nods, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“And you expect me to agree to this?” Elissa wonders if she should feel angry at the assumption that she would even consider this, surprised at the turn of events or merely shocked that someone calling herself her _sister_ has schemes reaching far back and beneath the very earth, dragging them all to the point of no return.

“I _expect_ no such thing,” she says, shifting somewhat in her seat. She sits on the bed, hands in her lap and the staff in them, constantly spinning it like a potential threat in the air. “You are no fool, however, and I think you will find my offer very beneficial to your cause.” 

“How would this... _thing_ benefit me?”

“You would not have to die for a cause you did not chose.” Her left hand comes up to the silver medallion around her neck, touching it briefly. “One could say that I would give you your life back, lift the burden off your shoulders.” 

Elissa looks at Morrigan and then around the room, looks at her pack that is spread out on the floor next to her still unused bed and shakes her head, more in disbelief than in disagreement. Lift the burden from her shoulders, indeed. 

“And you?” 

“Ah, _I_ shall have what I came for,” Morrigan says, a distinct lack of triumph in her voice. 

“There's no other way?”

Elissa sighs, already knowing the answer to that question. 

“No,” Morrigan retorts, as expected. “This is how it must be. I am offering you a better chance of ending the Blight. Think about it, think of what I give you. 'Tis a most generous offer. And all I ask is a favour in return.”

“A favour,” Elissa says, feeling a vague stab of pain sink into her, like a battle-wound. “You are asking me for blood that isn’t mine to shed.”

“There's no _blood_ in this,” Morrigan says, sounding almost haughty. 

She doesn’t say: that is what you do, shedding blood that is not yours. 

“You should tell that to Loghain then.”

Walking across the floor, eyes fixed on the fire, Elissa pushes strands of hair from her eyes and fastens them in the ponytail at the back of her head. She should have followed Leliana to the bath, she realises, wondering if she will ever again have a life where bathing seems important. 

“He would not listen. He has no reason to.” Morrigan has risen too, and stands in front of the door, as if trying to prevent a flight. “You are his superior, he will hear you. He is a man who knows his duty.”

“This is hardly his _duty_.” 

“Is it not?” Morrigan raises an eyebrow, standing absolutely still in front of Elissa. “Is not protecting his better and his country considered his duty? I would not be so quick to dismiss this, if I were you.”

“He can do all that without agreeing to your ritual, Morrigan.” She doesn't say that she has no intention of allowing him to. It has begun to blur in her head, reason and consequences intertwining with fear and that dark streak of _hope_ that she has in front of her now, right at her fingertips, so close she can pull it in-

_No._

“And be the hero he is not?” 

“Do you think I would endanger Ferelden for that? Truly?” She forgets, sometimes, that the woman in front of her has grown up apart from humans, very far from politics and manners. While brilliant, or possibly because of it, she reasons like a petulant child. 

Morrigan snorts. “Then do what a true Grey Warden would do. Anything it takes, is that not your cheerful little saying?” 

Elissa closes her eyes. 

She's back at the Landsmeet, the defeated hero at her feet and the map of strategy and reason unfolding in her head. 

Morrigan has thought about this for the better part of year, of course. The words from her mouth have texture, carry a conviction that is imposing. And in this room on this horrible night, her face is lit with the same kind of _reassurance_ , for lack of a better word; it nearly brings Elissa to her knees. 

Dark magic. Dark magic in order to overthrow ancient laws of how to defeat that which cannot be defeated. 

She thinks of Riordan, for a moment she is already half-way to his chamber to talk to him, _confess_ to him what she considers and make him force her hands away from this. Wants him to explain in no kind words what such a compromise with death will cause, the path it will lead to. _You'll let us all down, make a mockery of our sacrifices._ But she is a strategist and she stands firmly on the floor. An assurance in her body suddenly, like a tone that passes through her head, a new direction to her blood. It's a dark, tainted tune playing but it sings of promises and swirls firm through her doubts. 

“I will speak to him,” Elissa says and the earth doesn't open up to swallow her. 

“Then I shall await your decision.”

Even as she leaves her room she isn't certain if she is in fact going to speak to Loghain. Even as her feet march towards his door and she follows, blindly, she is convinced she will tell him the nature of this conversation with Morrigan. 

She can still slip in to see Leliana. She can explain it all to Riordan.

Or she can order Loghain to drag his name further down in the soil, for the chance of their mutual survival. 

Elissa stands for an eternity outside his bedchamber, flickering through her thoughts in her head and shifting her weight between her feet, a tottering rhythm in her body. 

She ought not to. 

She truly ought not to. 

Biting down hard on her own protests, she knocks on the door. 

 

 

 

The Warden stands in his doorway for the second time tonight, looking straight ahead, straight at him – and she is not precisely a Warden now, not a even a commander but a human creature who all but _stares_ with eyes that are dark and uncomfortably soft. 

“Yes?” Loghain knows he sounds as resigned as he feels, allows himself the same freedom of displaying too much emotions. It is too late for pretence. 

“Can I talk to you?”

“Should you not be in your own bedroom, sleeping? Is something amiss?”

“I didn't think you would be awake.” She looks past him, towards the bed, as if to assure herself that he isn't in fact in it. 

Loghain sighs and steps aside, closing the door behind her. 

“I never sleep before battle.”

“Oh?” Quickly the Warden is back on top of his bed, the image so oddly familiar to him it seems she was never gone at all. But her posture isn't the same; there is something in her that is considerably more fragile and that he could acknowledge – _should_ , he supposes – had he been that sort of man. He grunts, irritably, positioning himself against the wall, like before. 

“Why is that?” she asks before he has spoken. 

“Why is _what_?”

“How come you don't sleep? It seems-”

“My mind won't settle,” he snaps. “I think of strategy and the most likely outcomes and prepare myself for each. Now, apart from questioning me about my personal habits, what was it you wanted?”

In a life far away, Sister Ailis told him about the hours before battle. They became mythical things in her stories, full of gaps between this world and others, where anything was possible and the universe tethered, weighed against itself. 

All of that is superstitious nonsense of course, but Loghain finds himself thinking of it at times, when he isn't sleeping. 

“I met the marsh witch in the corridor before,” he says when she still doesn't speak. “I got the impression she wanted to ask me something, too. That cannot be a coincidence.” 

And this, finally, brings a reaction to the Warden's face as she turns her head to look at him. 

“We have become friends, haven't we?” She poses it like a question but the words have the cadence of prayer. 

Loghain looks away. 

Cautiously, he considers his reply, wondering how much her friendship costs. Not that he would know much of friendship other than what Maric taught him once. Not that he knew enough in the end to save either of them. 

“One could say that, I assume,” he says eventually. 

“I need to tell you something. And I-I... you won't like it.”

She sits cross-legged on the heavy blanket, fingers drumming in the bend of her knee and along her legs; it occurs to him that he has never seen her worried before. And tonight there is a whole scene taking place between the scant words she lets out, a scene that appears to give her reason enough to seek him out. 

_That_ is usually a bad sign. 

“You already have my attention, Warden. So speak.” 

“Morrigan proposed a deal,” she says. By the brisk tone he can tell she is entirely aware of his initial reaction to the combination of _Morrigan_ and _deal_ in one sentence. “Her mission for coming with me, after Ostagar – it was... you know how her mother is Flemeth, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Well, Flemeth wanted her to offer this deal to the Wardens,” she continues, frowning slightly, as if it's dawning on her what she is actually saying. “There's a...well, a ritual. The ritual will spare our lives. And the Archdemon we slay will be reborn, as an old god.”

“I see. And what does this ritual involve?”

“You would have... to _lay_ with Morrigan,” she says, quietly. “Tonight. And it would... she would make certain it creates a child.”

Loghain had thought himself prepared for most outcomes, but he is _entirely_ unprepared for this. He rubs his forehead, feeling slightly sick. 

“This supposed _child_ abomination would have the soul of the old god, then, I take it?” 

“Yes.” 

“While I have come to appreciate your capacity to do the unexpected,” he sneers, “this seems a stretch, even for you.”

She nods. 

They don't speak for a while; the silence that grows is both impossible and necessary – impossible because what has just been said demands a thousand words and necessary because neither can find them, just yet. 

Then the Warden exhales loudly, leaning forward and buries her face in her hands. Loghain remains where he is. 

“Her deal sounds like a patently dangerous plan,” he says, finally forming sentences again. 

“All our plans are dangerous.” 

“Don't play the fool.” 

“Yes, it's dangerous.” She looks at the wall, not at him. “From a strategic standpoint it could be useful.”

He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “From a strategic standpoint it would be useful to have a whole army of Wardens.”

But she has a point. She has a _point_ and they both know this, which makes him swallow his pride and clench his fists. She seems thoughtful, too, hesitating somewhat before she continues. 

“Morrigan was sent here to do this, Loghain. She has set this as her task.” 

“Are you suggesting we comply?” They might as well roll over for the Archdemon and the Orlesians next. The Warden has never struck him as downright idiotic before, but he has his doubts tonight. 

“I wouldn't say my idea is _complying_ ,” she replies. “Not precisely. She promises to disappear after the battle. And she wants me to swear I will not seek her out.” 

“For someone who requires our help, she certainly has a lot of demands.” Loghain wonders if the best solution wouldn't be to drive his sword through the witch after all. It would certainly save them both a lot of trouble in the days to come. 

“Well, it's Morrigan.” The Warden shrugs. “And I wouldn't let her get away. We would find her. There are... measures we could take, which you know as well as I do.” 

Loghain wonders if his sanity left as the darkspawn blood entered his veins, because he does not throw her out, he does not even raise protests with the brutal force of those he always raised against Maric's most ludicrous ideas. 

Yet he should. By the Maker, he _should._

“These are your orders then?” he asks instead. 

She looks up. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Her face is still. The expression in it slowly turns from determination to something less confident and more unexpected. 

“There are no orders,” she says. 

“Indeed?” The air in this room is stifling, too hot for both the season and the time of day. He leans back, resting the back of his head against the stone wall and welcomes the moderate chill from it. 

“If both of us die, it will be left to the Orlesian Wardens to rebuild the order here in Ferelden.”

He can see that she's proud of the impact of this argument, holding it out like a glimmering dagger for him to fall upon. He knows, too, that he cannot hide his reaction properly. But in her eyes there's little of the expected glint of victory. Instead she sighs and gets to her feet, pacing the floor until she stands facing the weapon stand by the door, turning her back against him. 

“None of this is necessary,” he says. “You are the general; the others, they will protect you to their last breath. You need not die. And I... can make amends.” 

“What about Anora?”

Loghain nearly laughs at the idea of his daughter urgently needing him to stay alive. Level-headed even in her grief, she will shed tears over his dead body and devise plans for the political landscape of Ferelden before he is even reduced to ashes. 

“She will manage,” he says, diplomatically. 

The Warden gives him an incredulous look that blends into another expression altogether as she exhales loudly. 

"I don’t want you to die either, Loghain."

“That....” he says, his voice curiously unsteady all of a sudden. “That is appreciated.”

And then he is thirty years younger and the best soldier in the entire rebel army. The ideal soldier, later a perfect general: unafraid, skilled and _expendable_. 

He did what they shouldn’t but desperately _needed_ to do. He caught the discarded plans and carried them out; gathered followers among those with the least, who could offer their lives with a shrug because they knew better than anyone how little they were worth.

He did not make friends, not at first and not consciously. 

Maric had made himself Loghain's friend, more than anything, persisting and sincere in his efforts. 

Rowan had offered a sword-arm as strong as his own, a steadfast equal; when she came to his rescue, upsetting all unwritten laws of the rebels, Loghain had felt as though she was standing there with her sodding heart in her hands. _I couldn't leave you to your fate,_ she had said and he didn't understand until many years later how little that truly meant to _her_. It was a generosity based on abundance, tossed out to someone like him, who was starved like a knife-ear in the gutter. 

He is old now, and less pathetic but there's still a trace of vanity in him responding to the Warden's words. Vanity and a shell of that sodding hunger even at this point, even after long abandoning the idea of friendship. 

She looks at him, scrutinising him. 

“I don't want you to die,” she says again, “If I am to do this, if the Blight will spare me... then I want you as my general. I-I _need_ you.” 

“There won't be a shortage of willing generals.” Loghain says, walking up to the bed and back again, apparently adopting the restless pacing his daughter is so fond of. “If the war ends you will be the one to end it-” 

“I don't want them, those nameless others you are referring to. I want _you_.” 

The Warden stands there, unmoved like a bloody statue; he wonders what she has planned, what there is in their future that requires his presence so badly that she is willing to sacrifice her personal integrity for it. He has come to think of her a stupidly proud woman, one who never _asks_ for things because it would be beneath her, and one who isn't suave enough to coax her way to beneficial agreements. 

And here she is and somehow she has persuaded her way under his thick armour, and he resents her for it. 

“Did you miss Maric?” she asks, in a voice so low and soft he wants to mistake it for an illusion. “Once he was made king, I mean. I... you must have been friends for a long time before he was crowned.”

“We were.”

“I suppose it's not the same, not exactly, but Alistair... for all his faults he was my best friend. Not for very long, granted, but my best friend all the same.” She sighs. “And now he's not. He's King. And blames me for it.” 

In daylight this conversation would seem gauche and impossible, but they have spent so many nights in each other's company by now that Loghain supposes they have to apply different rules to this particular companionship. He looks at her, bracing himself. 

“I missed Maric, yes.” 

She doesn't ask how or to what extent, and _those_ confessions are best left unspoken. 

“Alistair was the one who _knew_.”

“Yes.”

“I don't... have enough friends to sacrifice them.” She says it casually, rubbing her neck with one hand. 

“Do not ask me to do this thing,” Loghain says, knowing he _will_ if she does. 

“It's a sacrifice that goes beyond duty and something I certainly can't order.” She still looks at the cabinet. He's watching her slumped shoulders, her slow turn as she faces him again. “I'm not asking-”

“Do you think it's wise?” he interrupts, impatience and self-contempt making his voice hoarse. 

“It's an _option_ ,” she replies without hesitation. “It's a possible outcome. And I thought you should know about it. You're as much a Grey Warden as I am.”

The _only_ Grey Warden in Ferelden if the Orlesian fails and the witch's blasted ritual is left undone. This knowledge is deep-dark and beckoning, a horrible noise in his head. 

She spared his life or cursed him with it and he stands here with her life in his hands, feeling its weight. In this moment she is everything he has ever done – the blood on his hands and the corpses in his wake – and he looks at her, forcing himself not to avert his gaze. 

“So. No orders.” he says slowly, thinking of Maric on the throne, carelessly throwing another decision Loghain's way. _Act as you see fit._

“No orders,” she repeats and she _isn't_ Maric on the throne, he realises, but Maric many years before that, back when he had wanted Loghain's opinion because he valued it, not because it was the only thing keeping the kingdom together. 

And Loghain feels something crumble beneath him at that. 

“If you want me to do this... if this is what you consider a good option, then I trust you.” He clears his throat. “I will do it.”

She has not expected this, judging by the way his words leave her mouth open. 

“You-” she begins. 

“ _No_.” He cuts her off, his voice hard even to himself. There are so many other things he could say, but he doesn't, as he walks past her, pushing towards the door in a final assault before his mind has caught up with the rest of him. “Let us do this before I think better of it.”


	10. Dulce et decorum est

_The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori._  
-Wilfred Owen

.  
.  
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“This should not take long.” 

The witch makes certain the door shut behind them as she leads them to her quarters that are smaller than his own, containing scarcely more than a bed and a cabinet. 

“You certainly pride yourself on your abilities,” he snaps, looking around at the surroundings. He wonders what sort of paraphernalia are required for a blood magic ritual and wonders, too, how it will be performed. All scenarios playing out in his mind are rather gory. 

He reminds himself that he is here because he decided so. 

He _agreed._

After a year of bloody disastrous decisions, what is one more? 

And then the woman behind _this_ particular decision leans in, her face approaching his own and nearing him so close he can feel her breath on his cheeks; her lips are parted and wet. Loghain averts his own. 

“Careful, witch, or I will break your neck.”

“My,” she withdraws a little, eyebrows raised and he truly cannot tell if his words excite or anger her. “How _very_ hostile you are.”

“This is not a _game_ for your entertainment.” He tries to glare at her but his gaze wears off, sliding over her face and down over her body, as if he's subconsciously trying to convince himself about her supposed allure.“Just do what you need to do and get this over with.”

A smile, and the witch is close again, one hand on his shoulder, stroking it. 

“Oh, you are indeed a vast improvement over Alistair,” she says, low and _purring_ in that presumptuous way he finds himself confused as to why certain women adopt. 

“I think this will be easier the less you attempt to seduce me,” he shoves her hand off his body and walks up to the open window. “Explain this ritual.”

“You want details, do you? 'Tis not necessarily something that is going to help you perform-” 

“Explain – the - ritual.” He stresses every word, furious behind his forced calm. 

The witch chuckles, rummaging through a pack that she eventually tosses away. Loghain returns to staring out the window and she doesn't speak until she is next to him, carrying a little bowl in one hand, a cup in the other. Her scent is thick and spicy, and the smell of whatever she is holding out for him promises nothing that he will like. 

“I shall provide you with answers to satisfy your curiosity,” she says. “But I would rather think you are going to want this, even so.”

He frowns. “Poison? How unimaginative.” 

Hope is the last thing to abandon mankind, or so he's told.

“Certainly not. 'Tis a draught based on a few roots that do no harm. The opposite, in fact.” She holds the bowl under his nose, as though he would be able to discern the nature of the herbs by smelling them. “Should you feel less than certain about your – ah – _abilities._ ”

Loghain grits his teeth, hesitating for less than a second before snatching the bowl without a word, downing its content while doing his best to ignore the witch's bemused expression. 

“And this,” she continues, handing him a cup, “is plain old wine.”

He swallows that draught, too, along with his pride. 

“So, Loghain.” She stands slumped against the wall, carelessly holding her own serving of wine. There is no doubt that she's a woman who is familiar with this form of exchange of power, the wordless hierarchies of intimacy. Loghain is a man who isn't. He feels entirely misplaced, grateful for the pot valour that slowly creeps into his blood. “What is it that you would like to know?”

“How can you possibly ensure that you will be...with child after tonight?” For all he knows of the matter, it might take considerable time to achieve. It had taken Cecil a little over a year. “What sort of magic is involved?”

“Blood magic,” she says simply. “I shall cast a spell that temporarily gives me control of your body while we... _engage_ in the ritual. That way the taint in you will find its way.”

“I see.”

He nods, still feeling the bitter taste of those roots in his throat, their very implication. But he is nothing if not stubborn and this is his _task_ , his duty. It's a dark promise for the future they might never see and a gruesome thing to do, but they can't afford a better bargain at present. 

Nothing I would not do, he swore once. And he is a man of his word. 

“Anything else?” 

“No,” he says, clearing his mind and sealing it shut. 

 

.  
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.

 

It’s the largest army he has travelled with in a very long time.

When they prepare to leave Redcliffe they do it as a small country marching off to invade another: a legion of Dalish archers scouting in front, followed by a large amount of footsoldiers and knights, carriages carrying the Queen and the nobles; they are accompanied by dwarves and mages and even templars which - given the situation in the Tower and the Chantry's general predisposition towards any matter not directly beneficial to themselves - must be considered impressive. 

The Warden and her odd group of wanderers have worked hard. 

They have not spoken since last night. When he returned to his own chamber he half suspected, half feared she would be there for the third time in one night and he is still grateful she wasn’t. The less he has to speak of _that_ , the better. 

He is reminded of it all the same as he passes the carriage where the Orlesian has gathered most of the Warden’s companions, all of them seemingly thrilled at the prospect of not having to walk. The chatter coming from it sounds almost too high-spirited for the dull task ahead.

Loghain himself feels slightly out of place. 

It is odd being a stranger in one's homeland, even more so in an army, _any_ army, when he has spent more than half his life building them. _Odd_ and as much of a relief as it is a cause for annoyance, watching his own daughter and the Warden rally the troops upon departure. 

Soldiers, he has learned, need morale to be maintainable at all. And morale isn't built by training. Maric knew this, early on as though almost by instinct; he would throw around bottles of wine and old tall tales by the fire, opening himself to both mockery and adoration in equal measures and Loghain had thought him a fool, but eventually found that he was right. Of course. The soldiers would have followed them anywhere – followed Loghain for his skill and Maric for his heart and never made much of an distinction between the two. 

The Warden seems to struggle with both extremes in front of the crowds, too young to have done it before and not yet cynical enough to explain to people why their certain deaths will benefit Ferelden. Yet it seems unnecessary this morning. The swords are raised to the sky and the ground tremble with feet that move wherever she leads. 

She's still their hero, of course. Until she does something to brutally upset this ideal, she will be able to ignite passion merely by appearing before them. 

“For Ferelden!” she roars, finally, as they take their places in the ranks, in carriages and roles. 

Loghain adjusts his breastplate, almost certain he can feel the endless road ahead in his body when he walks away from the knights to take his own place in this battle. 

“The stable boys are waiting for you, my lord, I mean -s-ser.” A young soldier breaks into his path, nervous and pale, looking up at him like a servant waiting for his beating. 

“Noted.” He nods and the boy scampers off, visibly relieved. 

On Loghain’s orders, Anora has seen to equip the Fereldan Wardens with warhorses and it doesn't strike him until just now that he has no evidence and scarcely more than speculation regarding the Warden’s prowess as a rider. But the moment he notices her face as she tends to the brown gelding beside his own dapple-grey mare, he gathers he made a correct assumption. 

The mabari sits at her feet, decidedly jealous and not letting his mistress out of sight for a second. Only when Loghain leans down to offer him a piece of meat does he get up and accepts the treat - with suspicious glares at the horse. 

“He _is_ used to horses,” the Warden comments, arranging her saddlebags and weapons. “But he doesn't take kindly to other animals in the slightest. He'd be jealous of a rabbit if there was one here.”

Her dog growls disapprovingly at that statement. 

“You _would_ , silly boy.”

“You should be back there with the other wardogs,” Loghain says, gesturing to a vaguely defined spot behind them. This receives another growl followed by a drawn-out whine. 

Loghain snorts and after greeting his horse with few strokes over the muzzle, he mounts it, while the dog plants his body over the Warden's feet. 

“No, boy. We have discussed this – you are a fearsome warrior, no?” 

Without further ado she untangles herself and once his mistress is in the saddle, the irritable animal seems to accept defeat and leaves. For a moment the Warden looks forlorn, like she regrets the decision to ride and wants to call the dog back. Loghain has nearly forgotten the mabari can do that, insinuate themselves into their owner's heart by acting human. 

She turns her head to the side, looking at him. Maker knows Loghain isn't a communicative man, but even _he_ can see that her very body is taut with unspoken questions and desired confessions and he rolls his eyes. He won't speak. Not of this. Not today and possibly not ever. 

Shrugging, she lets him be. 

“We scout together,” she says instead. “I'd suggest we ride in front of the Dalish archers, try to get a sense of the darkspawn activity. You're a good marksman?”

Loghain sneers. “I get by.”

“Good. Watch my back if we get too far away from the others.” Her voice is even and authoritarian, cleansed of every allusion of last night. He gratefully slides into his own part. 

“As you command, Warden.”

And then they set off at full speed and the war is finally upon them. 

.  
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The second day of their journey is as uneventful as the first. Unfortunately that does not bode well for Denerim, but there is no change they can make to their plan now, he knows with a little stab to his conscience. The civil war cost too much and took too long. 

They set up camp for the night, on Eamon's orders and in spite of several protests from the knights. Having covered more ground than expected, even Loghain can see the value of a night's rest. 

After an almost boring battle – the occasional crowd of darkspawn is simply no match for the sheer mass of this army – they have settled, regrouping and reorganising, filtering their impressions and frustration. And the camp quickly grows into a big, boisterous city of tents and carriages in the outskirts of the forest. 

The special bond of soldiers marching off to war. He hasn't been this close to it in many years, has forgotten its deep-rooted fear and defiantly loud masks to conceal this; he has forgotten how quickly groups are forged. The Warden's friends have found company in Teagan and a handful of soldiers from Alfstanna's bannorn; the dwarves have gathered among the footsoldiers in the far right corner of the area and most of the nobility seem to be re-enacting the Landsmeet, forming minor nations all over the field. 

Loghain has laid out his shield and weapon in front of him in the grass and rests his back against a tree trunk. The lack of sleep for the past few nights has made his head feel swollen, pulsating with a dull pain and full of muffled fragments that never make it into proper thoughts. 

The others, for all their grouping, keep their distance to whatever formation _he_ is a part of, which is a right blessing. If the Warden is next to him, they steer away from her too, he notices, with the exception of the Orlesian who all but _basks_ in the possibility of fraternising with his brother and sister. 

“So. Morrigan confirms that you... carried out the deed.” The Warden stands in front of him, unsheathing her sword and wiping it clean with a piece of cloth that looks like it once was a scarf. If it wasn't for the slight twitch to her mouth as she speaks, he would never have picked up on the bloody _concern_ in her voice. 

“That would be correct,” he grunts. 

It's pathetic, but he feels an overwhelming reluctance to even think about what he did in that bedroom, the never-spoken request that's allegedly going to spare them one life at unknown costs – and the fact remains that he _did_ it, teeth clenched and mind blank like a sodding maid tending to her master's whims, because he was not asked to. 

Life is as unpredictable as fate, and apparently his mind is even worse. 

Loghain presses his thumbnail to a dirty spot on the shield, scraping without any illusion of getting it all off. Genlocks bleed like pigs and they stain worse than humans. 

And the Warden hovers near him, a cloud of discontentment around her shape wherever it appears. She's mirroring what once was, the uneasy company and that peculiar loyalty expressed in few words and many gestures. He had learned to like it back then. Like it and _expect_ it – against all better judgement - so that when he tore it to pieces, he broke his own heart as well. 

“I'm-” she begins, quietly.

“No,” he cuts her off, shaking his head. 

“- _sorry._ ” 

She looks away as she finishes her sentence, her word nothing more than a _hiss_ in the air between them. 

“Don't be.” He throws her a quick glance. “If it's fodder for self-flagellation you seek, I suggest you go find our very own Circle mage. What's done is done.” 

“That's...” She hesitates momentarily. “No. It's not what I seek, no.” 

“Very well.”

Loghain tosses the shield aside and pulls the sword closer. It's getting difficult to see in the dusk, and he wants to finish preparing for tomorrow before it's too late. 

The Warden remains, saying nothing for a long while. Her own sword is beside his shield in the grass and she's standing up, still, trampling like a restless horse. When he offers her no conversation, closing himself to any invitation of the sort she she usually wants, she leaves, only to return a moment later. 

“The dwarves have found ale,” she comments dryly. 

“Yes.” He sneers. “They're dwarves.”

“At least the Legion of the Dead can fight.” She smiles at him, a quick and hesitant smile. Searching his memory for accounts of King Maric's life and doings, he wonders if she knows that he met this legendary little group, too. “The others have yet to prove themselves.”

“Not tomorrow, by the sound of it.”

“Likely not.” She stoops down, dropping what she has carried onto the ground. “King Bhelen owes me his life and the crown, however. I dug up so much dirt there he wouldn't dare not to send the best of Orzammar.”

The Warden killed a group of his strongest men outside Orzammar, as he recalls it. He had learned this through messengers and Howe's badly disguised glee at seeing Loghain nearly helpless, always several steps behind. Howe wasn't stupid, but he was indeed self-serving enough to consider a Blight his personal arena for political advancement. At least Loghain, for all his inane previous mistakes, acted on the real threat once he acknowledged it - a fact that rings dully and without comfort in his mind because in the end, he was too late. 

“I heard you settled the dispute over the throne there as well,” he says. It's half a question, and it seems to bring with it some unpleasant memories; her posture changes and a touch of defence creeps into her voice. 

“I'll tell you _that_ story once this is over. You are holding your breath, I'm sure.”

Placing a cast-off canvas on the grass she kneels beside it, and beside him. She unfolds a scroll that has been tucked under her belt, and puts it down on the cloth. It's a rather old but well-preserved map of the city of Denerim, he notices, and he does a terrible job of hiding his fascination.

“That's a fine map,” he admits when she raises her eyebrows, having spotted his glances.

“Isn't it?” A smile again, and a gleam of pride in her eyes. “I've had it since I was ten.” 

He wonders what a child would do with a map but being reasonably well acquainted with this woman by now, it's not difficult to picture her, a stout little field marshal in Highever, commanding the imaginary troops over planned routes and made up country borders. 

“I used to sneak into father's office and steal his letters and maps,” she continues, ever oblivious to his lack of questions. “Sometimes I'd make new nations of them, taking them apart; I invented signs for everything since I couldn't write yet.”

From afar, he can hear singing and eventually someone blowing horns, as to salute their sad little path across this particular map, to this particular end. Maric once berated him for not letting the soldiers enjoy what could be their last night and Loghain still wishes he could adopt that idea. It seems a waste, even now. Even with all his experience and memories of nights just like this one, he finds it excessive and overly sentimental, not to mention detrimental to his strategy. 

Grimacing, he turns his thoughts back to what the Warden is telling him. 

“Father made me clean the floor in the great hall every day for a week when I drew dragons over his ancient map of the Tevinter imperium.” 

He doesn't know what he is supposed to answer, so he says nothing, rubbing the hilt of his blade harder, vainly hoping for the blood to come off through sheer force. 

“Can I ask you something?” The Warden puts the map down, turning her attention to him. She seems troubled. 

“I suppose I have a moment.” Loghain shrugs, feeling every pound of the armour and wishing he had been sensible enough to change out of it earlier. “As you may notice.”

“Let us assume that the darkspawn horde is already in the city,” she tilts her head, eyeing the map curiously. 

“A likely scenario.”

“Yes. What would you do to give us at least a fraction of a chance to drive them out and secure the gates?”

“Well.” He leans forward to share her view of the map. Every street is painstakingly drawn, every filthy street corners seemingly _there_ , before his eyes, because of the massive amount of detail. “First of all I'd urge you not to launch a large attack-”

“Urge me?” She frowns. 

“Yes, you.” The surprised offence in her tone makes him stifle a laugh. In a way, those he has served have all been the same in this aspect – willing to admit almost anything but their own shortcomings. This one is no different. “You harbour a ridiculous fondness for frontal assault.”

The Warden snorts. “I do _not_.”

“Yes, you do.” Loghain reaches for the top of the map to pull it closer, his right index finger tracing the northern city gates. “Here, look. This line there is full of spots that lend themselves to cover. I'd send troops there, and I'd make certain the back alleys are cleared out before even thinking of moving forward.”

“I wonder if the best approach is to split us Wardens into three separate units or to go together,” she says. 

He looks at the map, ineffectually searching it for answers. “Either way, it's unlikely we will all survive the battle long enough to find this Archdemon.”

And when he says that, when he speaks those words, it all becomes real. What they have done. Loghain sighs heavily, all too familiar with these kinds of bargains over the past years – over the past _thirty_ years, a nasty voice in his head reminds him – and not at all used to them ending even moderately well. He can tell by the expression in her eyes that she understands this is unsteady, uncertain ground, too. 

“We might.” She looks down at her hands, rapping a finger against the canvas. 

“Is that what you _believe_ or what you wish for, against all sense?”

“A bit of both,” she says, voice heated and _complete_ , leaving no room for contradictions.

“I gather the important thing is to keep the witch close,” he offers eventually. “If she's telling the truth, she needs to be where the Archdemon is.”

“Yes,” she nods. “You're right. And I hope she is... _honest_.”

“So do I,” he responds darkly. 

As the crowd grow louder and the night darker, Loghain puts down the weapons entirely and the Warden gathers her map. They have sat in silence together for so long speaking seems odd when she rises to her feet. He watches her silhouette clash with the other shadows in camp and rubs his head, slowly. 

“Loghain?” She turns around and her gaze is brushing over his face.

“Yes?”

“I have a standing order for you.” She pauses. “Sleep. _Please._ ”


	11. The art of war

Mornings, whether in Highever or Redcliffe, on the road or caught up in the hours of battle, all resemble each other. There are, intimated in the nature of mornings, certain rituals that must take place. First, there is the chasing away of the darkness. The quiet awakening of body and mind, the gentle push from the other side of the Fade until it releases its hold. And the victory afterwards, the sensation of being able to pull life back from whatever direction it is going. 

It's a fleeting triumph, but a triumph nonetheless. 

Mornings mean to stretch limbs to the point of breaking, yawn dreams out of the body and then slip back into the element of water; water against the sleep-warm skin in her face and on her neck; followed by - and this is the best part - food. She has always been starved in the mornings, as though the night quietly _drains_ her. 

It is still hunger that awakes her on the cold ground between Redcliffe and Denerim. Hunger, and the muffled chatter of low voices sharing her tent. 

“You are snoring worse than Oghren, my dear,” Wynne points out, folding her bedroll into a pack and smiling. 

“I am _not_.” Leliana, face flushed and arms folded. 

“Oh, you are.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Elissa mutters, crawling up on all fours on the ground. Her back hurts. She's not yet in her twenty-fifth year and her back _hurts_ from travelling, her head soars with the lack of all those daily luxuries they have been denied for so long now and her shoulders are taut, wired so tight that she seems to be at a breaking-point. And there is no release. Nowhere in sight is there a faint whisper of release of any form or shape, no promises of anything better than this incessant marching towards fate. She wonders how the others are holding up, all those soldiers old enough to be her mothers and fathers. 

“Good morning,” Leliana turns to her, the notes of her voice warming up. “We are settling a dispute over who is snoring the loudest.”

“Is there a prize for the winner?” Elissa looks over her shoulder for clothes, feeling a chill from outside the tent, creeping through the thick canvas. “I have been told I snore on occasion. It could be slander, of course.”

“Oh, you don't,” Leliana says, something in her face shifting and the look in Wynne's eyes switch from amused to a darker shade of worry. “You don't _snore_ , exactly. You... ah, you seem more unrestful.”

“Yes. _Well._ Try sharing a bond with an Archdemon and Loghain and we'll see how sound you sleep.” 

She is shying away from this, precisely _this_ , and has been since she first caught them looking at her with that particular blend of pity and compassion; her mind is sealed and her body a wall of stone where this does not _belong._ It makes her weak, because they make her want it. She wants Leliana's hands rubbing the sore spots in her back; she wants Wynne sitting with her until it dawns, explaining why a life is not lost or wasted simply because it is not what one wanted it to be (but it is, oh it _is_ , for in the end one cannot change one's desire, merely wash them out like stains and traces will always remain). She wants nothing more than being a very small child again, asking only for a brief moment outside of time, when she can curl up and cry for all that she has lost, and never will have again. 

But Elissa hasn't cried since Highever and she can't cry now. 

Shaking the discomfort off her body like her dog shakes off dirt, she offers a half-smile to her companions. They look unconvinced but let her get dressed in silence, clothes and armour slowly covering up any remaining doubts. 

“I'm _fine_ ,” she says, pressing Leliana's hands. 

“No, you're not. And you are a _terrible_ liar.” 

Wynne politely turns her back to them as a hand finds its way to Elissa's face, stroking her cheek. 

“Leliana...”

“I know, I know,” she sighs and the eyes darken again. “Off you go then, to lead your warriors.” 

Sighing, Elissa undoes the knots of the tent-opening and steps outside. 

She is greeted by a sight that feels vaguely familiar, despite very few previous mornings of this kind. Camp is bustling, everyone is on their way somewhere and yet there is a pattern to it, in the way pale ladies in waiting run from tents to carriages – terribly misplaced in a scene of battle but this is no ordinary battle, this is a fight against extinction – and the way the knights nod towards each other as they walk up to their horses, the way Elissa is breaking her fast in silence, alone in the outskirts of the little village of tents belonging to the dwarves. 

This, she knows, is the pattern of war. 

They will ride as soon as Eamon or Teagan, assuming some sort of leadership of this army whenever they can, declare that it's wise to do so. Elissa suffocates her own vitriol at the sight of the arl of Redcliffe, thinking it steams from vanity more than anything else. This is not her army. The Blight is not hers. But she's a Teyrn's daughter and the politics in Eamon's game runs in her blood as well, ever-present and disdainfully aware of any personal loss. She knows his agenda by now, but knows too, that she is no longer allowed one of her own. 

Eamon has a way with the men that she lacks. Like pawns to the queen, they flock around him and his orders, seemingly unaware of anything else. 

Elissa is an inexperienced woman half their age and she may be a hero, but unless she can prove herself some sort of _deity_ or Andraste reborn, they will not let those crimes pass unnoticed. So the knights talk. In the way knights do. Even with the taint thundering in her head she can hear them, chattering away like the gossip mongers in the streets. Whenever she comes too close, the voices die away. 

“...the Teyrn defers to her, imagine that!”

“Bryce Cousland's youngest... always thought the older brother was the general of the family, but there you go...”

“...and these Wardens... heroes they may be, but what of their skills as strategists?”

Elissa groans. 

Loghain walks ahead of her, a saddlebag thrown over his shoulder and his arms full of breastplate and gauntlets. She quickens her pace to draw level with him and when he notices her he throws a quick glance her way.

“Morning, Warden.”

The smell of leather, horses and metal is what she will think of when this is over, she realises, as she walks there by his side. The smells and the heavy rhythm of blood in her body. 

“Who were you unfortunate enough to share a tent with last night?” she asks. 

“I slept outside.” He snorts. “The assassin kindly offered me the bedroll beside his but it seems a wasteful death to be poisoned in one's sleep, during a Blight no less.”

He gives her a puzzled and annoyed look when she laughs. 

“Oh, Zevran isn't... I mean, he'd never betray an ally of mine.”

“He seemed rather unsentimental about killing you.” They have reached the horses and Loghain is stroking his mare over the mane. 

“I trust him with my life.” Elissa has never spoken those words before but as she does, she knows they are true. 

“You find friends in strange places, Warden.”

She smiles. “That I do.”

Shaking his head, Loghain tosses his bag over the horse's back, drops the gauntlets on the ground and begins forcing the breastplate in place. It's unevenly balanced on his shoulders and Elissa sees that's it's about to slide down his left side and catches it – in one swift move – before it falls. A reflex she has developed over months of having to dress herself in armour, now a motion as natural to her body as any other; Loghain looks at her before grabbing for the metal in her hands and readjusting it. Elissa turns to her horse. 

“We should be in the city come tomorrow,” Loghain says, as they are saddled up and ready to ride. 

Elissa nods, trying to get a good look at his face on horseback, which proves a bit difficult. She has a nagging suspicion, refusing to let go of her, that if _she_ is feeling bad, he ought to be even worse off. This is something no question in this world or the next would have him admit, but Riordan and likely Morrigan aside, he is her strongest asset in this fight and she needs him well. _Wants_ him well, too, when it comes down to it. 

“My head is never quiet any more,” she says, looking down on the reins in her hands. Beneath her the warm, powerful animal is getting restless. Her heels in his side urge patience and she is granted it. She remembers the hallas among the Dalish, but knows too that this horse's surrender is not a servile thing, it's a mere necessity. “Not since Redcliffe.”

“No,” Loghain agrees simply. 

They ride fast and easy for a long while, scouting ahead of the army and sensing no worse activity than usual. Behind them the Dalish are relaxing as well, passing time with songs and riddles; occasionally Elissa can hear the Keeper Ashalla interrupt the soothing flow of words for an order or urge caution, but any enemy the came across – stray darkspawn and a few wild animals - is soon defeated. 

Around noon, there is a rift in the air around them, an undercurrent in the steady stream of noise in her head and Elissa is about to speak, when Loghain pulls up his horse and looks at her, sharing the sensation.

“It's coming from the forest, I think-”

She is interrupted as a horde of genlocks hurl themselves out of their cover in a row of bushes to her right and a lash of unmistakable emissary magic whip across her face from the left. At her side, Loghain shouts back to the Dalish before he ducks for a fire arrow and draws his bow. With a sense of desperation, Elissa becomes acutely aware of the fact that she is no knight and dismounts ungracefully. Her weapon is still hanging limp and useless on her back when the first arrow hits her in her arm, and a second one brush against her chest but falls to the ground as she parries. 

The Dalish are bombarding the horde with shots from further back, and Loghain proves that he is indeed as good a marksman as he is a rider when they suddenly hear a new battle cry. The decreasing lot of darkspawn freezes. Elissa uses the brief pause to pull the arrow out of her flesh and draw her sword, firmly ignoring the pain coming from her right upper arm. 

“ _Blast_ ,” Loghain curses from his position on the horse, and she understands why when she looks in the same direction and spots a massive crowd of hurlocks, archers and emissaries darting forward. They are running, screaming and aiming directly for them as though the taint calls them. 

Without much of a choice, Elissa fights right behind the archers, taking on the darkspawn that don't fall. She tries to make sense of how far ahead they are and when the army might arrive, but fails in this mission as another arrow pierces her breastplate and brings her to her knees momentarily. Gasping for air and regaining it, she pulls herself together again. 

“Knights are coming!” Loghain screams at her, firing two arrows in a row against an emissary that hisses a final spell before it dies. “Stay behind me if you are unfit to fight!”

“I'm not!” she screams back, running a genlock through with her sword and bashing another with the side of the blade as she drags it out. 

A few steps to the left and she fells another, parries a cluster of arrows by sheer luck, as she darts to find cover that isn't a moving bloody warhorse. 

And then she isn't doing much at all because there's a sharp, burning pain in her side and she falls down, writhing, one hand clutching the sword and the other trying to grab the arrow that crippled her. _Maker._ Elissa has to close her eyes, regardless of the dangers, and concentrate on breathing because it is suddenly _intensely_ difficult to achieve a proper breath. 

She can hear the knights gallop to their battle but she can't see them, her eyes blinded with a veil of white torment that subsides only when she – screaming and probably sobbing – drags the arrow out of her stomach in a too-long, shuddering move. She feels one more a bit further down, but she can't steady her hand enough to repeat the procedure; scrambling to her feet she opens her eyes again. 

The battle goes on. 

There's an outnumbered group of knights taking out the archers, another one attacking the remaining emissaries and then Loghain, who has dismounted as well and bashes a hurlock with his shield. She catches his gaze before struggling back into the heat of the battle, clutching her side. 

“That is unwise,” he says, out of breath and his face smeared with sweat and dirt. He wipes his forehead with the back of his sword-arm. “You need a healer.”

“I'm... _fine_ ,” Elissa insists, still feeling the blood pulsate between her fingers and she is about to fall down again, not feeling her legs, but this time Loghain is there and instead of falling she all but collapses against him, her back against his chest.

Without words, he puts one arm around her and then – before she can protest – he grabs hold of the last arrow and rids her of it. 

“The knights can go find a mage,” he says. 

Elissa winces. “No.” 

“Are you planning on dying here then?” 

“I'm... _no_.” She inhales sharply as a surge of pain rips through her when Loghain releases his hold of her body, still unsteady and without its usual strength it jerks slightly. “But I _can't_... don't let them see me like this. Please.”

She expects a scolding answer, his usual frosty sarcasm when she suggests foolish things or at least a scoff. But he surprises her by simply nodding. 

“Can you ride?”

Elissa mirrors his nod. “I think so.”

He strides back to his horse, rummaging through the saddlebags and hands her a cloak, a simple brown thing that has seen better days. 

“This should do,” he says, eyes travelling down over her bleeding gashes, an unreadable expression in them, betraying neither disappointment nor worry. She swallows. 

And they ride, once it's clear that the knights can handle anything else that might jump at them from the forest, they ride back against the stream of soldiers marching until they reach the Queen's carriage. Elissa holds herself upright through sheer willpower and a poultice that is cold and still ineffective but brings a faint promise of future healing to the worst wound. She has Loghain a mere arm's length away; as they pass people who wants to talk to them, ask about the rumoured trouble ahead, he cuts them off with sharp orders. 

“The Wardens would like to discuss a matter with the Queen.” He voices it like a statement, loud and clear. When he turns to the soldiers watching the little scene, his face is stern. “This is nothing that concerns you. Carry on!” 

Elissa looks at him gratefully, praying that nobody notices that when she climbs down from the horseback, she is a dry sob away from wailing out her pain and that when she gets into the carriage, it is Loghain's arms that push her upwards. 

“What in the Maker's name-” Anora looks at them, wide-eyed and sceptical before she has time to register why a panting Warden is crawling on the floor of her carriage. “Father, what-”

“Get Wynne,” Elissa hears him say in a low, serious voice before she has to close her eyes again and drifts off into blissful, painless sleep. 

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

It is odd how your body is made up of so many _sensitive_ parts, she thinks, half-way out of her dream. Seems like a bad decision, to create mankind with so little strength and so much that can – and _will_ \- break. Her stomach feels like it has been invaded by fire, her breathing is uneven and every breath, when it finds its way out of her, comes with a sting as the torn flesh moves with it. 

Even so, Elissa tries to sit up, to discern her surroundings if nothing else. 

“I would not do that, if I were you,” a soft and familiar voice says close to her ear. “You were badly injured before. The potions and salves will require a few more hours to do their job.”

“But the darkspawn-”

“Riordan and Loghain are taking care of them, I am certain.” Wynne pats her shoulder reassuringly. 

“ _Warlords_ ,” another voice sighs, sounding amused of all things, “you are made from the same form, the lot of you.”

Squinting, Elissa can tell this voice belongs to the Queen of Ferelden, seated with her back to the road ahead and her gaze fastened on Elissa. It's a strange vision to have, in a place like this. She possesses an effortless beauty that lashes out against them even now because even _here_ she looks her part, despite the raging war and a stinking, bloodied Warden at her feet, Anora is regal. It's in her voice and her body as much as her face. 

_A rose among brambles_ , she thinks drowsily. Was it her mother who said that?

“Here,” Wynne says and lifts Elissa's head into her own lap as she holds out a goblet of something. Something that tastes of ashes and bile, and makes her cough but that slides down her throat after a few attempts. “This should help.”

It does. Almost immediately the haze is gone and thoughts are no longer filtered through sticky walls of pain that cut them to shreds. Elissa sighs. 

“Did anyone notice?”

“You will be safe here,” Anora answers while evading the question at the same time. “And I assure you that if my father was the only one who was made aware of your previous predisposition, the secret stays with him.”

A soft noise from Wynne is the only sign of her different opinion in the matter, gracefully restrained in the Queen's presence. 

“I must be off seeing to a few knights who were also harmed,” she says, getting to her feet and placing Elissa's head back on the pillow. “Will you kindly let me know if she needs me, your Majesty?”

“Naturally.” 

Once they are alone, Elissa tries to move, carefully. It still feels impossible but is not, at least not in small steps and with gritted teeth. She tilts her head to the side and wonders if she looks as foolish as she feels. With effort she pulls the brown cloak up over her chest, so it covers most of her. What is not seen is not _there_. 

“I have long wanted to speak to you in private, Warden,” the Queen says, leaning forward in her seat. 

“Yes?”

“We did not get a chance to talk after Landsmeet. And not properly before it, either.”

Elissa recalls the hurried conversations leading up to that, the sense of being in the middle of something that was far too complex to be decided in one vulgar outbreak of the Landsmeet, the event her father used to refer to as _a genteel playground_ after a few glasses of wine. 

“I suppose we never did,” she says. 

“My methods to ensure your support were not as honourable as I would have liked.” Anora watches her, with the sort of unreadable expression her father often employs. “But I think you agree that there was no doubt my father had to be stopped.”

“I agree, your Majesty.”

“Yes,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. To have something to do, it appears. Perhaps the restlessness of battle gets to her too, royalty be damned. “You are the sensible sort, obviously.”

“What would you have done if I had decided to support Alistair alone?” Elissa asks, and she does not have to spell out the silent part of the question: _and put myself on the throne by his side._

Anora raises an eyebrow. “What do you think, Warden? In my place, what would have been your strategy?”

“I would have supported the regent in power, I presume. If he had been in a position to grant me future support in return. And if he had not been, I might have tried to outmanoeuvre him later, when the Landsmeet wasn't watching. Or instantly, if that had seemed more beneficial.”

“You are a Cousland, still,” Anora replies, a weak smile playing on her lips. “It is good to hear.” 

“Meaning that this was the strategy you employed?” 

“He is my _father._ ” She sharpens her tone, only slightly, so that no one who isn't used to subtleties would notice. “Do not doubt that I love him, very dearly at that. But he was a lost cause at the Landsmeet. There was no saving him.”

“No,” Elissa has to admit. Anora had done what she could to keep Loghain safe while also preserving her own power. She had been every bit the political manipulator Elissa's mother, both jealous and in awe, would claim Anora had always had the potential of becoming. 

“He thinks highly of you,” the Queen says, softer now, as before. “As you may have guessed, he is not easy to impress.”

It feels strange speaking of Loghain with his daughter, feels like a peculiar balance on lines that are thin and dangerously twisted and where every misstep is laden with consequences. 

“Loghain has been very useful, as I expected.” Elissa smiles, tentatively. The lines are indeed difficult to see. “Did he tell you... did he mention we returned to Ostagar on our way here?”

“Ostagar? What would you do there?”

And Elissa explains, in detail. Anora listens without questions until the words wear thin and the carriage rocks to a halt, and voices outside suggest a rest. 

“We found King Cailan's belongings in the end,” Elissa says, bringing the threads together. She has barely spoken this much to anyone since Alistair was _hers_ and they spent every night trying to wear each other out with long-winded tales and speculation of the future. 

“Ah, that explains father's new sword.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I suppose he took it before anyone had time to suggest it should be brought back to the Theirin bloodline?”

“Oh, he did not,” Elissa says softly. “I gave it to him.”

“You did?”

The expression in the Queen's face makes Elissa hesitate, remembering Ostagar as it was laid out before them the second time she visited it. It had seemed a decision as simple as breathing, back then. The sword in Loghain's hands and the night surrounding them with a heavy reassurance. 

“I thought it belonged to Maric's best friend rather than to the bastard who just so happened to share his blood,” she says, sounding more cynical than intended. “I don't... it wouldn't have meant much to Alistair.”

Something softens in the Queen's face, something thaws in her voice and warms it up from beneath. 

“I see,” she says. 

“May I ask you a question?” Elissa asks, to steer the conversation in another direction. 

“Certainly.” 

Elissa puts her hand to the wound to her left, putting a firm pressure to it as she turns a little to her side. “Were you aware of the extent of your husband's correspondence in regards to your marriage?” 

“Correspondence?” The Queen looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly before her expression relents. ”Ah, you are of course referring to the letters between my late husband and his uncle?”

“No.” Elissa shakes her head. “Well, in parts I am, but that is not the end of it.”

“Please, go on, Warden.”

“There was... evidence at Ostagar, among the personal belongings we found in King Cailan's chest, that he was... forging alliances with the Orlesian Empress.”

Anora is quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that Elissa concludes that the conversation is over; her prying question is indeed overstepping the bounds of propriety that not even a new title and its disregard for hierarchies can remove from her knowledge. But then the Queen speaks. 

“This was news to me, Warden.” 

“For which I sincerely apologise,” Elissa says, searching to find her upbringing somewhere among the wreckage this past year has left in its wake. “It is not something one should find out in this way, your Majesty, and from a stranger at that.” 

“Thank you. Did... did my father know of this, do you think?”

“Oh, I doubt he did. He was very upset when we found the letters.” 

“I see.” Anora is quiet for a while again. “I am going to ask for a favour, Warden.” 

“I suspected as much.” Elissa winces as she's trying to adjust her position on the bedroll, reminding herself yet again of why bedrolls belong on grounds and not moving carriages. Every motion of the wheels translate into jolts of pain, tiny stabs of ache in her wounds. 

“It will not go unrewarded, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We will speak more of this once the war is over,” Anora says, “but allow me to say at this point that I will need a discrete and politically neutral ally with a reason to go to Orlais without drawing attention to this fact.”

Elissa sneers inwardly at the thought of playing errand boy to the Queen. Her mother would faint. Faint and curse and then get down to work, priding herself on it in the end. 

“Let us focus on the matters at hand for the time being,” she says. “And then we might have an audience like this one again.” 

“That should not be a problem,” Anora rises at the sound of high-pitched girl voices outside the carriage. “Thank you for your time, Warden.”

“Thank _you_ for your assistance, your Majesty,” Elissa says, closing her eyes as she is left alone. 

With the rocking having come to an end and the buzz outside growing into a comfortable and familiar sound of camp life, she finds that she doesn't ache as badly. And when the pain releases its grip, the exhaustion takes the field instead; she wonders what sort of potions Wynne has given her and if there are perhaps more of those at hand. She could do with sleep again. Since they are not going to let her draw her sword again before tomorrow, she might as well make use of the idle time. 

“We have stopped for a while,” the mage says, as though Elissa's thoughts have summoned her. Turning her head, she spots Wynne climbing into the carriage with surprising ease and lowering herself to where Elissa is resting. While glad for company, the concept of solitude is lost when other people break into it. 

“How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Is there any food-”

“Warden!” Loghain's voice approaching from outside interrupts her effectively. 

“Yes?”

Then his face appears and Elissa shuffles awkwardly to a different position to be able to look at him without straining her neck. 

“There were a few troubles along the way.” He stands on the ground, leaning in to the carriage. “We're going to let the horses rest for a few hours and then we travel without interruption to Denerim.”

“Any losses?” 

“A few, nothing detrimental.” 

Elissa can hear Wynne scoff. 

“Very well,” she respods, ignoring it. 

“Your general will be fully restored with a little more rest,” Wynne says sharply as Loghain makes a move suggesting he is about to leave. “In case you take any notice.”

“Wynne.”

“I'm sorry, dear,” Wynne sighs, touching Elissa's arm. 

Elissa props herself up to the best of her ability, her eyes meeting Loghain's for a second. He seems tired in a rather grim way, and she could ask plenty of questions of how the day has been spent – questions she would like to have answers to – but not now. Now she merely smiles at him.

“Thank you, Loghain,” she says, pointedly. 

“Of course, Warden.”

And if she didn't know better she could swear there is a genuine smile buried somewhere in his sneer. 

 

.  
.  
.  
.

 

When they are mere hours away from Denerim's gates, Elissa is given permission from Wynne to ride again. The threats from before seem to have been averted and they spend the rest of the journey in silence, scouting ahead of the army like Elissa had not just been resting for countless of hours, _near death_ according to the healer's tightly wounded voice – you are _valuable_ , dear - when they went back to the battle. 

But here they are. And there's Denerim. 

“Looks like trouble,” Loghain says sharply and slows down. 

Elissa follows suit.

“Push back into the city!” A voice is thundering in front of them. “All of you! _Back_!”

Elissa leans forward, as though that small adjustment would help her see hundreds of metres ahead to discern what scenario is taking place just outside the gates. There's a commotion of soldiers, darkspawn and fleeing silhouettes spreading before them and then a relative calm, as the fighting somewhat subsides. 

They approach, tentatively at first and then without restraint. 

“It's _Cauthrien_ ,” Loghain says, his voice losing its rough edges. 

He is on the ground within seconds, and she looks up, removing her helmet to get a better view. She freezes as she sees him, before almost dropping her sword in what seems like surprise mixed with something decidedly warmer. 

“I thought we'd never see another human coming this way,” she gasps. “Least of all _you_.”

“I refuse to die decently,” Loghain is in front of her, looking at her like he suspects she is a mirage. Elissa dismounts as well, glancing over her shoulder for the others that are approaching steadily in the distance. “You should know that by now.”

“We've tried to hold them back for days.” The knight rests her hands on her knees to catch her breath, looking up at Loghain as though she's still awaiting orders from him. “The... _king_ is in the city, he insisted on fighting. There was no talking him out of it. You were delayed?”

“Yes, we have been held up elsewhere,” Loghain said, nodding towards Elissa who steps forward.

“Good to see you, Ser Cauthrien,” she offers. The Commander of Maric's Shield is scarcely her favourite person in Ferelden, but at the moment she is indeed a welcome sight. 

“Warden.” The less than friendly feeling, she can tell by the tone, is definitely mutual. Then she turns back to Loghain. “These darkspawn, they can come from the ground?”

“They can.”

“That explains a lot. So. _Wardens_.” She sneers a little at that. “I must ride back to my troops. I shall see you inside the city.”

“Yes, ser.” Elissa nods. “You will.”

“Cauthrien?” Loghain looks at her, then at the burning buildings behind her frame, the sound and fury of war greeting and repelling them at the same time. “Good luck.”


	12. Weave yet a soldier strong and full

The heavy breath of incessant rain accompanies them as they set off, a sensation of _breaking_ into the city. Which is what they do. They break into it and wrestle the streets from the darkspawn, the invaders, the _beasts_ stealing their home. They make it sound simple. War, any war, requires simplicity and blind eyes to overlook the crimes not explained by mere necessity. Anyone who is too weak or too decent to blind himself will find that war _hollows_ you, cuts to the bone and leaves empty shell-ruins of your insides. 

Loghain knows this a little too well by now. 

He rides in front of the army without commanding it; occasionally, if the Warden needs an extra pair of lungs, he barks orders but they are not his own. This is the strangest thing in a long time, this unfamiliar position of being either a Warden or merely _Loghain._ To have that choice. 

He opts for being a Grey Warden. 

And, as a Grey Warden, he enters the city of Denerim again. Their absence has not been long but the city is, of course, utterly changed. Layer upon layer of time, of people and battles and rulers all lending their hands to reform or destroy it takes its toll, it wears a city down in the end. It seems this has finally happened to Denerim and if they still stand afterwards, the newly appointed King and his Queen will be having their hands full. And they won't be the only ones, Loghain knows, looking around at the odd group of soldiers following them. 

They stand in front of the gates and draw up plans. Even now, plans offers an imaginary comfort. The Orlesian has assumed the role of their temporary leader, with the Warden close behind. 

“I suggest taking Loghain and no more than two of your companions to the city,” the Orlesian says, sheathing his sword. He looks around, waiting for more enemies, but the scenery is calm again and they are alone here. “The rest of you stay here.”

The Warden nods.

“I want Morrigan by my side,” she says, distinctly. No surprises there. “And Wynne, if you would?”

“It is an honour, dear.”

Then the Warden looks in his direction and a for a moment he almost suspects, with a dread he cannot begin to describe nor understand, that she is going to tell him to remain at the gates. She lets her gaze travel between Loghain and the Orlesian, and he is _certain_ she is going to find an answer in that silent communication telling her to leave him here as a final, twisted punishment. 

“Loghain,” she says finally, _simply_. 

“Yes.”

As he walks up to the group, the marsh witch is observing him curiously. He quells the impulse to say something.

“Very well,” the Orlesian sums it up. He sounds satisfied, for reasons that go beyond Loghain's comprehension. His battle plan is inane at best. There is scarcely anything that can go well with it and even less anyone can do to improve it, since there is no way to actually improve the outcome of these matters. But Loghain can, he supposes, grasp the sense of relief at the end of this long road; they have both spent thirty years fighting and this is enough – _much_ more than enough - for anyone. 

Tucking away that odd strand of empathy for a bastard who deserves none, Loghain prepares for departure by cleaning his sword and tightening the breastplate. A general under his command once told him the surest sign of having spent too long on the road is when you reach a point where your armour needs refitting. 

“If _it_ returns and she does not,” the golem informs Loghain right before they part, speaking for the assassin and the bard as well, he can see by the way their gazes fall on him, “I shall crush its arrogant little head.” 

“Believe me,” Loghain says, adjusting his gauntlets over his fingers that feel cold and stiff in this temporary stillness. “That is not the outcome I am aiming for.” 

“Ah, this is good to hear,” the assassin interjects, his tone entirely stripped of the inane lechery he normally uses. He glances sideways at the Warden who is approaching, looking ready to be off. “She is not expendable.”

“Who is not expendable?” The Warden frowns, straightening her shoulders. Her pace is hurried but she still pauses among them, flanked by the mage and the witch who both wear ill-fitting reinforcements to their robes tonight. 

“You, of course,” the bard offers. Loghain wonders briefly what it is there, between them, the quiet flow of something that seems unspoken but that at least the Orlesian woman takes very seriously. Her pleading looks in his direction only underlines this further. He averts his eyes. 

“We _will_ return,” the Warden says, looking from one face to another.

And everyone pretends momentarily to believe her.

 

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It's a long night. 

Almost against Riordan's suggestions, she has made the decision to take out the Archdemon's generals, a choice based as much on a desire to save what's left to save, as anything else. She doesn't tell anyone. But they know. Sewn tightly together like pieces in a large patch-work they are one, and they are everywhere at once. 

And every time she falls, someone is there. 

There's a secret, ancient form of magic to it, to this steady flow of moving bodies; Elissa stumbles and Loghain's blade is there to cut down the emissary headed for her; moments later Loghain is cornered by ogres and Elissa shouts at Morrigan to blast them; Morrigan is flat on the ground, bleeding heavily and Elissa pulls her up and pushes her towards Wynne's healing spell, cast only because a shield quickly gets in the way of three rapidly fired arrows. 

It's a rhythm in the way they survive, because that is the only order, the one command: _evade death._

It's a rhythm in the way they fight. 

In Wynne's unbroken strength and the sheer _power_ of her magic, the precise focus and deep control over every direction she channels it in, the way in which she manages to stand without armour and blade in the ugly crowd of their enemies and never seeming the slightest bit out of place. A rhythm in Morrigan's aggressive force, the lightness of her seamless shifts between human and animal, in the hopelessly clumsy hands reaching for Elissa's without knowing how or why. 

Elissa fights with the last bloody year in her body, begging for someone to wring it out of her wide-open arms and erase her own name from its records. She fights with her heart shut to everything else and her memories hardened to metal around her, with hands curled into fists and a hint of metal in her mouth, raw fury in her throat. 

It's a rhythm in the way she always _must._

And in Loghain's refined brutality on the battlefield she finds something that mirrors herself, in the measured strokes of his blade and the unforgiving hits of his shield there are depths she is afraid to look into because they are her own depths; she knows, because their eyes meet briefly, that he isn't fighting for his life – he is fighting to the _death._

It seems neither of them will succeed.

 

.  
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The battle misses him, time and time again. 

Death _does_ seem to flow off him, brushing against his shield and darting to the ground without hurting him – at least not his physical form and he has long since given up on the soul. 

They spill many lives. The price of one general is as high as ever. 

Loghain finds himself uncomfortably _used_ to it, the bargaining, the finality of each step, the unrelenting ever-pressing force of war that wreaks itself into every corner of the country, laying it bare. There is nothing human about war and therefore they are not humans tonight. They perform their deeds and carry out their missions according to plan; however haphazard and undefined that plan may be, it is a plan and it directs their hands, the force of their aggression, because it _must_. 

But they slip. The best of them slip. 

For thirty years, Loghain has worked hard and unrelentingly on never thinking of them as the innocents they are; Maric always did. He would ask Loghain sometimes, his jaw set and eyes swimming in ale and that particular form of pathetic bitterness he had developed over the last ten years of his life, how it could be _worth_ it.

It isn't. 

You allow yourself a moment or two, Loghain has learned, before you continue. You forget the price and the corpses, wash their blood off your hands. It's as monstrous as war itself, and it's the only way. 

In the alienage after it all but burns to the ground, he finds the Warden in between moments; granting herself a second to breathe, a faltering confidence and the ghost of grief around her slumped shoulders. 

He finds her resting against the back of a shop, her hands clutching the wood so hard her bare fingers whiten. She wipes blood off her cheek and looks at him for the longest time, her face unreadable under the marks of battle and pain, her lips moving but he cannot hear what she is saying, her words nothing but low hissing sound he only afterwards recognise as prayers. 

“Let's go,” she mutters eventually. He cannot tell if she's irritated or thankful he stands with her, watching her doubts. It hardly matters. He won't speak of them and he is quite certain she knows this by now. Silence has always been his vice and his curse; both Maric and Rowan would alternately seek it out and wish to destroy it and not much has changed in that aspect because he is, he fears, set in stone. 

“Of course,” he says, following her lead out of the market district and into the once lavish streets leading to the Palace. 

The Warden. 

If he wasn't already impressed with her skills in battle, he would be now, he thinks to himself. She has something – and he cannot say what, precisely – that stands out, that separates her from other skilled soldiers and strategists he has met, that raises her above comparison. It's not merely because she bested him - he isn't vain enough to base his respect for her _entirely_ on that occasion – or because he finds himself accepting her command without taking any blow to his dignity, although this is no small feat on her part, and it's not because she is young, because Maker knows they were younger than that when they drove the Orlesians out. 

He knows little of why and scarcely more of how, but there it is, all the same.

 

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She wakes up in a fire. 

At first she is standing behind the Archdemon with her sword raised and she has Wynne by her side and she has Loghain further ahead, the thrash of his hands keeping the last, desperate hordes at bay; she is standing on its demon-back, sword buried in filthy flesh and that _stench_ , thick of decay and already perished life slicing the sky above them; she is standing on the ground again, struggling to catch her breath. There is a moment when all stills around them, melts down to bone-hard resolve and unforgiving need and she tilts her head up, sucks breath into her lungs and rushes, before anyone has time to say anything, headlong towards the fallen creature. And it's not dead, when she cuts her blade into its neck, it is not _dead_ but it speaks to her, screams to her in a language she understands by now and that unfolds itself to her in a terribly beautiful sound of release and freedom. 

Then she wakes up in a _fire_. 

She understands it is her body that is burning, not the rest of the world, and even this seems odd considering what she must have done, the massive fire-spitting demon that she destroyed in a blaze; grimacing she makes an attempt at looking around once her eyelids obey her command of opening. 

“She's not dead.” 

Isn't she? 

Elissa. She is Elissa and the one who is speaking near her face is Loghain. Things slowly fall back into place, like a great shift in her mind as the darkspawn song pulls back, relenting somewhat. Loghain observes her intently. He seems very injured, almost as badly as her. She wonders if he is burning as well. 

“The... arch- _ouch_ -demon?” Her voice. It sounds strange. Detached and from a distance, like she is shouting at herself from a great height. 

“It will make a handful of very nice scale armours one of these days. Don't _move_.” His voice is raspy. 

As though half-way into the Fade, her thoughts blurry and unfocused she can feel him press something to her side. 

“What... are you _doing_?” she ask because she knows she is _dying_ and he ought to leave her. Cut the losses and run for his life. Secure the tower and the Archdemon remains. Fight his way back to the gates and oh, she can _feel_ her own blood leave her body and it makes her head spin. For all the people she has seen die over the past months, she is still weak-hearted. Or perhaps nobody can quite face their own demise. “ _Go_.” 

“If you think I'm going to put up with another inane title to my name, you're sadly mistaken,” Loghain says, pulling back his hands and wincing when he notices they are full of her blood. “This one is yours, Warden.” 

In the corner of her eye she sees Wynne sitting on the ground, face torn in pain and exhaustion and she sees the scant remains of the dwarf army at her disposal, walking around among their fallen. She wants to shout at them to stop and to _leave_ , tries to sit up again, but at this moment Loghain is so much stronger even with a face pale as snow and an arm that seems to be broken, and he is holding her down firmly. 

Elissa tries to take a deep breath, steady herself. It fails. _Oh dear Maker._

“I... _oh_.”

And what was a little stream of blood is now something more, something that seems to pour out of her body and she isn't calm any longer but terrified, because for all her bravery and half-buried death wish, this is happening _now_ and she doesn't want to die. Her hands try to grab hold of something but she cannot lift them. 

“Mage!” She thinks for a confused period of time that she is the one shouting, but her lips feel numb and as she opens her mouth there is no sound coming from it. “Get over here!”

“Loghain?” This is her voice, only _not_ because it's barely audible. She hears her own pulse in her ears, like a waterfall. 

“Don't _speak._ ” 

“...demon... it's really dead?” 

“Yes.”

“M-morrigan?”

“She's gone.” He looks over his shoulder. “She left.”

“Loghain,” she says again, tearing at the lines between them, the faded borders of where one Warden ends and another one begins, the darkspawn land they share. A Warden always dies alone but _surrounded_ , consumed by its likes, someone says bitterly in her head. _“Loghain.”_

His gaze find hers even though he seems unwilling, seems to find it more important to look down on her wounds and Elissa knows perfectly well _why_ but she still forces him to look at her face. 

“Yes?”

“We... did well.”

“We did,” he says grimly. 

Elissa attempts a smile, means it as a soothing gesture but it becomes a drawn-out grimace as another wave of weakness flushes over her, leaving next to nothing behind. 

And the next thing she knows is the dreamlike image of Wynne stooping low, eyes so infinitely tired, but her hands two blazing lights of restful sleep and it carries Elissa away, _finally_.


	13. We could be heroes

She has, to the best of her knowledge, fifteen visible scars on her body. 

(Alistair once counted them.)

One for that dog bite nan would tell her about, stroking Elissa's hair as she crept into bed and dreamt wishful dreams of her own Mabari that father had promised her. It's a little slice of hard skin on her shoulder, fading with every year. 

One for climbing a too-high tree; one for tripping and falling and driving the tip of a blade into her left leg; two on her arms for learning, gradually, the many uses of parrying in duelling and battle. These are all line-shaped, simple constructions. 

One for Ostagar, a small wound that Flemeth could heal but not eradicate; one for the immense poisonous spiders in Lothering that pierced her gauntlets with their stings and made her left hand swell to twice its size before Morrigan got the venom out; one along her spine for a nasty genlock attack while she was entirely unprepared. 

One from Bann Teagan in Redcliffe, another from an arcane horror in the Circle Tower; two – burn wounds, healed badly in a hurry – from fighting the high dragon thought to be Andraste reborn. 

Two that Alistair never saw, recent ones inflicted on her since he left. 

The fifteenth, that he won't see either, is a large, shapeless mass firmly placed on the right side of her body. It spreads from under her arm, down along her waist and up towards her chest. It is, she knows because the healers have promptly carried mirrors to her room on her orders, shaped like a large, deformed hand with fingers reaching around her ribcage and down below her navel. 

It's not even a scar yet, not fully mended underneath the careful healing. She can feel her body rise in protest when she disturbs it. 

She wonders, in between dream and waking hours, if someone will ever touch it the same way as the other scars were touched, gentle fingers mapping boundaries and pressing gently, pushing against the texture of history. She wonders if she will be granted this or if battle has hardened her beyond it. 

She's the hero now. 

She's the hero now and heroes are _untouchable_ in the most heart-breaking sense of the word. 

 

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The rooms in the former Teyrn of Gwaren's estate are dusty. 

When they arrived, she is told, they had to dig their way to an entrance, wade through charcoaled wood and melted metal, lift darkspawn corpses and burn them. Her companions, when they come to see her in this room that has begun to feel a part of her, bring tales of the days they spent making Loghain's former home inhabitable.

It has been a lot of work for a battered group, especially with their unhelpful leader tucked into bed. 

“The Chantry was full and Eamon has more than enough wounded in his estate,” Leliana explains, hands caressing Elissa's arms with soothing motions that smell of those oils the mages insist on using. “Sten and Oghren have been busy putting things in order.”

“They were not badly hurt at the city gates, then, I take it?”

“Not badly, no.” 

“And Wynne?”

“She was summoned a few nights ago; the Circle healers needed her. They have been very busy, indeed.”

“How is Loghain?” 

This is the question with no answer, Elissa knows. Nobody will tell her but she can hear between the silence and the stray lies that he is not _dead._ And the idea that he is somehow worse than that sprouts in her mind, becomes a possibility as the companions shift and nobody has anything to _tell_ her. 

Running between all the chambers, she has come to understand, are Circle mages sent there by the Queen to tend to the wounded. Elissa has her own pair with sweet, well-meaning faces and names she never remembers. 

“You are built like great _bears_ , both of you,” the younger of the mages says. They are two, side by side in all they do and beaming down at her as though she's a child they are putting to bed, a child who needs smiles and kindness and possibly bedtime stories. 

Elissa grimaces. Today is the first day she can feel her head clear and sharp, not wrapped in sedative potions. It's not only a blessing. 

“A fine compliment for any lady,” she manages weakly. 

“We could see your _bones_ ,” the other mage, old and tiny, not much larger than a dwarf, shakes her head. “You were ripped apart, Warden. The teyrn was... How you _even_.... no, I simply cannot understand what you are made of.”

Wincing at the ill-boding nature of that comment, Elissa presses the palms of her hands into the mattress and heaves herself up to a sitting position. 

“Stubbornness and darkspawn blood, I should wager. How _is_ he?”

The mages look at each other.

“He is upstairs.”

“Alone?” Elissa asks, leaning her head against the wood behind her neck. An odd echo in her blood, a forlorn sound of longing and pain that she has not heard before. The darkspawn song twisted into grief, into a wail for the lost god and a rage over being too late, yet again. She closes her eyes, her mother's voice in her head: _grief is a form of madness, dear._

“Well, _yes._ ” The young mage looks like Elissa has just asked her the most ridiculous thing in the world. 

It's a sense of responsibility there, Elissa realises, for him as well as for the others. Against her will, their lives have been her tools, laid out at her disposal and in her heart they still are. She feels the corners and edges of them, the many purposes and consequences. 

Her companions who are no longer _her_ companions. 

They come and go, easily slipping in and out of her chamber like shadows or ghosts, talking to her in their familiar but strange words. All these months have tied them tightly together but the mission that required such intimacy is done, _over._

The war is over. 

She is not holding any authority over anyone any longer. They are still her friends, possibly her future comrades in arms, but never again hers to command. This she knows. And there is a little stitch of sadness in this knowledge, in the dissolving borders around her country, but they shall be glad to be on their separate ways, she knows. 

Loghain is a different thing altogether. 

Healing quicker than she is, he walks restlessly around the estate; she can hear him snap at the mages and bark orders and it happens, too, that he pops his head into her chamber to inform her of something. But for the most part, he stays out of their way, almost shying away from their gazes and questions as though the unguarded postures they have adopted lately are wearing his own defence down. 

”He went back for the Archdemon,” Leliana tells her on one of the days when Elissa still breathes fire-breaths and aches just thinking about anything outside the bedchamber. ”Once you were brought here, he went back.”

”Oh.” 

”He took Sten and the dog. Wynne wouldn't have any animals near you; she said Dog was filthy.” Leliana smiles a little. ”I think it broke his heart, the poor little thing. But your dog likes Loghain, no?”

”He does,” Elissa admits, folding her hands on the bedspread, stretching her fingers. ”Granted, he likes anyone who gives his food and rubs his belly.” 

”The mabari has proven himself an honorary Warden this week,” one of the mages points out. “He has waited patiently outside your door every day. And in the evenings he has waited outside the teyrn's chambers.”

Feeling a pang of guilt at the idea of Dog being lonely and heartbroken, Elissa winces and shifts position as much as the constricting limits of the bed allow her to. 

“Well, with the nobles returning to the city, he could use protection,” Leliana says, smiling faintly, as though she is uncertain of her remark being funny. 

What anyone would do in these ruins right now is nearly beyond even someone as used to politics as Elissa. But it is the way these future days seem to unfold: nobles returning, counting on the utter demise of darkspawn and eager to grab at any political thread of the torn nation, weaving it into their own agenda. Alfstanna is greeting the wounded personally in front of the cathedral, and those who let their homes to strangers are certain to make sure it will be heard in the days to come. 

The Blight is a game: cruel and dark and _devastating_ , but a game nonetheless. This is one lesson she has learned since the Archdemon fell. 

This is another lesson: 

There are two forms of torture: pain and the absence of pain. 

Pain, Elissa learns, is simple. It is an all-consuming, straight-forward ache that overthrows thinking, because it drains you in one breath, sucks you in and batters you until you care about nothing else in the world. 

There's a great comfort in that. 

When the physical hurt subsides, she is left with the matter of the mind. 

That veil, the thick fog cramping around her every thought disappears, and she finds that she misses it. Reaches back for it, through near-dreams and illusions, deception and distortions and when she finds nothing, it's a heavy sadness that fills her in its place. 

When she cannot push the memories further back, she is forced to release them. That day arrives and it is one drawn-out evoking of memories and feels like dragging something harsh and thorny across the tender lines of her body, chasing fragments as though they are wild animals refusing to stop because being still _hurts_.

The mages are there, tutting and fretting and _oh dear, what an awful thing to have seen,_ reducing the horror of the many months behind her to something that can be held out and observed and mended by a banal phrase of simple consolation. 

“Oh, Elissa, I have _wonderful_ news,” Leliana bursts into her room, carrying a letter in her hands and wearing a wide smile. 

Fergus is alive. Fergus is on his way to Denerim for the coronation. 

And Elissa cries. 

Like someone has stormed the walls that separates one emotion from another in her mind and body, or crushed the defences around her heart, she _cries._ She cries like a child, like a madwoman, her fingers digging so deep into Leliana's shoulders that she gently pries them away and when she looks at her she sees that Leliana is crying, too. Elissa cries for Highever, still a raw wound in his chest; she cries for being left without any choice, for being a killer and a warlord; she cries for Alistair, and for forcing the throne upon him when he begged her not to; she cries because he is no longer a Warden and no longer her friend, she cries for Loghain who would rather have died but lives because she has twisted his fate around her own; she cries for the destruction of Ferelden and the people who has lived and died based on her decisions and she cries, wholeheartedly and desperately against Leliana's chest, for being gut-wrenchingly _alone_ in making them.

And she misses being in pain, because pain is _simple._

 

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“Loghain?” 

Elissa stands in borrowed clothes and ill-fitting boots outside the chamber they tell her belongs to him. He used to live here, she knows, and that thought is odd because the estate looks barren of all life; not merely unused but _bare_. As though whoever once possessed these halls only borrowed it for a brief moment of time, before giving it back. She walks through the rooms looking for traces leading to some sort of understanding, but there is none to be had. Perhaps, she thinks, he moved all of his things to the Palace once they returned from Ostagar without King Cailan. 

There's a surge of cold in that thought to match the draught from the open windows in the corridor. She wraps the cloak tighter around her shoulders. 

“Loghain, are you there?”

She knocks. One time, then another, and a third. 

And waits. 

When he finally opens, she has already begun to walk away. 

“Did you want something?” he says it as a sigh, his voice as blank as the expression in his eyes, when they reluctantly meet hers. 

Elissa swallows a hundred questions that will anger him and a hundred more that will make the door shut before her. Without asking anything at all, she can see that he is very tired. Possibly still unhealed in some ways. Refusing to rest. The lines in his face are sharp and angry, his mouth is a taut grimace. 

“I wanted to see how you are.” She leans against the wall, still not well enough to make a lot of physical effort. Three days from now she is assumed to be craving the attention of the banquet held in her honour, she realises, looking up into Loghain's face. At present it feels like the people of Ferelden will be greeted by a chair-bound weakling. “They wouldn't tell me much about you, you know.”

“I wasn't aware that the state of my mind nor my body was of any concern for these mages,” he says. By the way he holds his arms and slumps his shoulders she can see he has not recovered. 

“It's a concern of _mine_.”

Loghain says nothing in response to that. He is slightly altered since the battle, she notices, but cannot say in which way. He is so many _fragments,_ all those little cracks between his roles and shapes and she wonders about the light that pours out of them at time and ghosts in them, travelling between who he is and who he used to be. Who he will yet become. She will need a new way of interpreting him, the old language stormed by the new. 

“Is that all?” he interrupts her trail of thought, his hand on the door trembling slightly. 

“No.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

Loghain looks like he wants to tell her to sod off, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and his face gaunt, the way it has been since the fighting ended it, the way _her_ face has been and with the same look of confusion and bewilderment she can spot in some of the others, as well. Those who had not expected, or wished, to be alive to see an end. 

But he opens his door. 

“I'm not going anywhere.” Elissa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at him where he stands, showing no sign of wanting to let her in. “The mages sent me up here with your painkillers and I thought we needed to talk.”

“We _have_ spoken at length, Warden.” 

“About Orlesian Wardens, yes,” she admits. “And about Archdemon blood. We have discussed the battles in Denerim quite a lot; I'll give you that, Loghain.”

“And you want to talk about chess next? The history of the Tevinter Imperium?” He scoffs; the rough edges to his speech returning a little more each day. It's oddly reassuring. “Very well, come in then.”

He steps aside and Elissa brushes past him, the scent of his soap and her own unfamiliar body oils clashing in the air. At least nobody goes many days without a hot bath in this place. It's a compensation for a year of cold, dirty ground as well as a soothing cure for aching muscles. 

“I am aware of how pointless it is to ask if you're feeling okay. I'm... far from it, myself.” She doesn't look back at him, proceeds to the window he has opened. In the other end of the room a fire is burning. “I'm not feeling well and I don't think you are, either.”

“No, not particularly.” Loghain closes the door behind her. 

If the rest of the estate is sparsely decorated at best, this bedchamber is no exception. The thick tapestries seem somewhat out of place in the stark naked surroundings and she isn't sure what she expected but this is not it. A few piles of books and parchments around the settee in front of the fireplace are the sole details in the scenery that makes the room look inhabited at all. Elissa digs into the pockets of her clothing and finds the small vials the healers – she still doesn't know their names, which would have been awkward, surely, in a time where she still cared about such things as manners – insisted she take with her. _Two birds with one stone, dear,_ the older one grins in Elissa's memory. 

He is being a most frustrating patient, she gathered. 

“Here's something for the pain.” She holds the vials in her palm, showing them to him. Loghain still stands on the other side of the room. “It tastes better with tea.”

Sighing, he walks up to her. When he reaches for the potions, the cool skin of his hands meets her own that still appears to be burning, sending a little shiver through her. 

“Maker knows I've had a lot of those,” Elissa says, attempting a smile. “They tell me I would talk in my sleep at first, begging for painkillers. It was the only thing I said.”

Loghain looks at the draughts, his face caught in a grimace. 

“I know,” he mutters, uncorking one of them and swallowing it without hesitation. “They told me.”

“You saved my life.” And there is something in her that goes quiet as that sentence slips out, a soft sigh of being _done_ , of having put the most monumental thing on her mind into words. 

“I did no such thing, Warden.” His face has regained some of its life but his voice sounds strained, coming out of him in reluctant sighs. Elissa tries to wrap her gaze around his own, make him look at her. “The mage healed you-”

“Thank you all the same,” she cuts him off. 

He doesn't protest again. Elissa feels her back ache as she lets go of the windowsill she has been clutching; instead of waiting in vain for an invitation to sit down, she moves towards the settee, slumping down ungracefully on it. She closes her eyes and listens for a while of unbroken silence to Loghain, still walking around in the room. Pacing. Eventually the footsteps cease and she can hear the clinking sounds of glass. She takes a deep breath.

Their companionship is in no way similar to anything else. It is, and has always been, a world unto itself. A separate entity where there are different laws and they seep into her blood whenever he is near, but disappear again when is not. When she thinks they have reached a common ground, or shared a thought, he withdraws again; when she begins to decipher his pattern of speech or elaborate way of avoiding to look at her sometimes, it changes altogether and she stands there without a clue. 

And yet some threads of it remain. There is always a way back, even now when their comradeship is cracking under the weight of being liberated from the war that forced them together. 

“I won't _wrest_ anything from you.” This is territory she feels she has touched upon before, but every time, it's _new_. “But I... I wanted to let you know that I am here. Not as your commander but as your... fellow Warden, I suppose. If you wanted to talk.”

“I thought you said that was what _you_ wanted,” he retorts, but his tone isn't as harsh as the words would imply. He sounds mostly tired. As is she, she feels with renewed force. 

“Well, contrary to what you appear to think, Loghain, talking is sometimes a mutual undertaking.”

He snorts. Then she feels him approach, the air around her filling up with his presence and she is about to open her eyes when there's a glass in her hand and her fingers wrap around it, wordlessly. A familiar scent of brandy tickles her senses when she raises it, taking a small sip. 

Loghain sits down beside her, placing a bottle between them on the settee. Elissa throws him a glance. He has poured himself a drink as well, but not touched it. 

“So it's not drinking, then?” she asks, softly. 

“What isn't?” 

“Your way of enduring.” Elissa takes another mouthful of the sweet but strong liquor, grateful for its taste and consequences. 

He shrugs. “Drinking is a double-edged sword, Warden. At best.”

“What do you do, then?” 

“What do you do?” He rises momentarily to stir the gasping flames of the fireplace, before sitting down again. He moves with more ease now, she notices. The pain seems to have worn off. 

She has no answer to his question that seems much more intrusive when thrown at _her_ , so she merely sighs and leans back further in her seat, trying to relax her muscles. 

“I did not expect to be alive to see this,” she says, when they have been quiet for longer than what is appropriate for any two people sharing a sofa. “When I joined the Wardens, I was certain I would be dead within months. And then I kept surviving... so many things. I never really _cared._ I lost my family and my name; fighting was never... I never fought for myself. I fought because I was told to.”

Loghain finally drinks. He says nothing, remaining so still beside her that Elissa has to repress the wish to reach out and touch his skin, making certain he has not turned to a statue. 

“I made a horrible decision with Morrigan,” she continues, her breath ghosting over the glass she brings to her lips, as if to take a sip before lowering it again. “I... should have let it happen the way it has always happened.”

“You weren't alone in that decision.” 

“I'm responsible for it.” She looks at him, catching his gaze. “Don't ever pretend otherwise. I'm not going to brood over it, but I made a mistake. I should have died with the Archdemon.”

“I should have died at the Landsmeet,” he says, and there's a flickering light falling on his face as he turns around, averting his eyes. The lines between mercy and punishment certainly blur, Elissa thinks, vaguely disturbed. “I should have died at the Joining. And the final blow to the Archdemon should have been mine, not yours.”

“You-” 

“But I was not given that mercy.” He doesn't look at her, but his voice chills her. “ _Your_ mercy is to leave me in the fire, Warden.”

Elissa doesn't know what to say. She leans forward, balancing the drink in her hand. 

“I didn't mean... I was granting you a chance to set things right.”

“How?” His question is short and sharp, like a crack of a whip. 

“What do you mean, how?”

Loghain looks at her now and his eyes are changing. Beneath the calm blue surface she spots a fire, something powerful and furious raging inside. He has spent these past few days alone, she realises, alone and disappointed in finding himself alive. If that is not grief, she doesn't know what is. 

“ _How_ am I to make amends?”

“You can help me rebuild the Order.” She looks at her hands. “You can restore what... what we lost. You can make amends by living, Loghain. Living is not a punishment.”

He makes a resigned sound, stuck half-way between a groan and a scoff. “Yet you just wished for the release from it yourself, Warden?”

Elissa swallows a large gulp of brandy, regretting the decision to speak of this in the first place. Some wounds run too deep. 

“ _I_ wanted to die because I lost everything I had,” she says eventually. “You of all people do not have the right to blame me for that, not after what you... Why did you crave those last minute heroics so badly? Because you are convinced there is nothing you can do to redeem yourself alive? Because you are afraid to find out?”

Loghain is silent. 

“If I left you in the bloody fire, you deserved it. And you know that.” Elissa has the distinct impression he is waiting for her to continue. That he has been waiting for a while, not merely tonight. “You said it yourself – you have made so many mistakes. You tried to destroy our entire order based on nothing but your own prejudices against it. You sold your own people as _slaves_ , Loghain! Even if your intentions were noble, you plunged us into civil war.”

“I have not forgotten my own crimes-”

“I know you haven't,” she interrupts, merciless now. He has struck at something dark, deep inside her. “Nobody has. By all laws you should have hanged, but I thought your death would have been a waste. You are needed here; Ferelden has scant use for yet more dead. If it was a punishment it was a fair one, and don't you _dare_ treat it differently simply because you are too scared to _truly_ take the chance to be something other than the blasted Hero of River Dane, fallen or not. We don't need him – I certainly don't need him; I need _you_. And _you_ are not a bloody coward. You admitted defeat in front of the entire Landsmeet and that was one of the bravest things I have ever witnessed, Loghain. Be _that_ man. That man would not hide behind what he has done, he would find a way to make up for it instead of brooding over the mess.” 

She winces at the pompous magnitude of own words; he looks at her like she has slapped him. Perhaps she has; the lines blur tonight. They sit without speaking for a very long while. Elissa tugs at the sleeves of her tunic, Loghain leans forward, elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. 

“Mercy is a strange creature.” He rubs his forehead. 

“It is, I suppose.” Elissa puts down her glass on the floor but picks it up again almost immediately.

“I did not expect to find it at Landsmeet,” he says. “And I certainly did not expect to find it in a Warden. Yet here it is.” 

“Here it is,” she agrees. 

There are voices outside the door. Hushed, hurried voices that quickly disappear again, like he is the kind of master whose wrath will have them lined up to run the gauntlet if he is even the slightest bit displeased. Her mother would tell her about that kind of masters, sometimes, indignant and loud-voiced. You should treat your lessers with respect or you deserve their rebellion, she had said, tutoring Elissa in household management. 

She wonders what sort of master Loghain is. 

“The war will not disappear overnight, as I'm sure you realise,” he says, rather harshly and suddenly, throwing them back to matters of duty. “With the most pressing concerns gone, how do you propose we as Wardens work to rebuild what was lost?”

She finishes her drink. “My first suggestion would be to await the Wardens who are on their way.”

“The Orlesians?”

“Yes.” Elissa reaches for the brandy and helps herself to another serving, pouring more into Loghain's glass as well, not looking up. “Frankly, I have no idea what the best course of action is. I'm going to take counsel from my seniors in this and decide what we do after the coronation.”

“But you're staying with the Wardens, even now that the Blight is over?”

“I... yes.” She hasn't thought about this, to be honest. Hasn't seen it as a choice, nor a question she would be asked. Perhaps it is a choice. “I think so. I don't know what _else_ I would do.”

Another silence falls. This one is comfortable, but restless and flickering, resembling the light from the fire. Loghain takes a big swig of his drink before looking at her. 

“What of me?” he asks. It must have been a lifetime ago, if ever, since he last asked such a question. 

“You are a Warden, too, Loghain.” She pauses, considering. “I... don't know what the others in the Order will think of your presence but as your Fereldan senior Warden I want you to stay. We have worked well together since the Landsmeet, don't you think? You have been a good companion and strangely enough, Loghain, I think you have proven yourself a friend, as well.”

He is quiet for a long time, slowly drinking from the glass in his hand and watching, it appears, the logs in the fireplace spit and hiss as they burn. They are close enough for the bond they share to hum dully in their bodies, Elissa knows. Even with the Archdemon dead there's a path between his blood and hers, an undeniable connection of bones and flesh and minds. 

“You have earned my respect,” he says, suddenly. The slice of him that is still a commoner is visible through the overly formal tone, awkwardly adopted even after thirty years. “The Wardens could not have chosen finer.”

“I never thought it possible, but I have been grateful over these past weeks,” she says. “For your company. You _are_ somebody beneath all those things you've done. I find that I rather like him.” 

Elissa glances sideways at him, observing the expression in his face change into something less angry than a few minutes ago, something almost _kind_. 

“I will be your general then.” The soft thud of his boots against the stone floor as he changes position is accompanied by a jingle when her glass bumps against the half-empty bottle between them. Elissa exhales through her teeth as the last remains of the second drink burns in her throat. 

“Thank you.” She smiles, hesitantly. “I'm glad to have you.”

“Indeed?” Loghain frowns. “We'll see how long that lasts.” 

 

THE END


End file.
